AVry 


i  K,  CIO. 


Tales  of  Mean  Streets 


T 


ALES 

OF 


Mean  street 


s 


BY 

ARTHUR   MORRISON 
\  i 

AUTHOR   OF 

'MARTIN  HEWITT  INVESTIGATOR' 


NEW  YORK 

R.   F.   FENNO  &  COMPANY 
112  Fifth  Avenue 


CorYRIGHT,  1895 

R.  F.  FENN'O  &  COMPANY 


Tales  0/  Mean  Street} 


CONTENTS, 


LlZERUNT 


I.   lizer's  WOOING    . 
II.  lizer's  first 

III.    A    CHANGE    OF    CIRCUMSTANCES 

WITHOUT    VISIBLE    MEANS  . 
TO    BOW    BRIDGE 
THAT    BRUTE    SIMMONS 

BEHIND    THE    SHADE  .  * 

THREE    ROUNDS  .  .  . 

IN    BUSINESS  .  .  * 

THE    RED    COW    GROUP 

ON    THE    STAIRS  .  .  . 

SQUIRE    NAPPER 

"  A    POOR   STICK  "     .  .  • 

A    CONVERSION  .  .  • 

"  ALL   THAT    MESSUAGE  "  .  . 


21 

38 
48 
62 
70 

83 

93 
no 

123 
142 
150 
174 
183 
196 


INTRODUCTION 

A  STREET 

This  street  is  in  the  East  End.  There  is 
no  need  to  say  in  the  East  End  of  what.  The 
East  End  is  a  vast  city,  as  famous  in  its  way 
as  any  the  hand  of  man  has  made.  But  who 
knows  the  East  End  ?  It  is  down  through 
Cornhill  and  out  beyond  Leadenhall  Street 
and  Aldgate  Pump,  one  will  say  ;  a  shocking 
place,  where  he  once  went  with  a  curate  ;  an 
evil  plexus  of  slums  that  hide  human  creep- 
ing things  ;  where  filthy  men  and  women  live 
on  penn'orths  of  gin,  where  collars  and  clean 
shirts  are  decencies  unknown,  where  every 
citizen  wears  a  black  eye,  and  none  ever 
combs  his  hair.  The  East  End  is  a  place, 
says  another,  which  is  given  over  to  the  Un- 
employed.    And  the  Unemployed  is  a  race 


8 


whose  token  is  a  clay  pipe,  and  whose  enemy 
is  soap  ;  now  and  again  it  migrates  bodily 
to  Hyde  Park  with  banners,  and  furnishes 
adjacent  police  cpurts  with  disorderly  drunks. 
Still  another  knows  the  East  End  only  as  the 
place  whence  begging  letters  come ;  there 
are  coal  and  blanket  funds  there,  all  peren- 
nially insolvent,  and  everybody  always  wants 
a  day  in  the  country.  Many  and  misty  are 
people's  notions  of  the  East  End  ;  and  each  is 
commonly  but  the  distorted  shadow  of  a 
minor  feature.  Foul  slums  there  are  in  the 
East  End,  of  course,  as  there  are  in  the 
West;  want  and  misery  there  are,  as  wher- 
ever a  host  is  gathered  together  to  fight  for 
food.  But  they  are  not  often  spectacular  in 
kind. 

Of  this  street  there  are  about  one  hundred 
and  fifty  yards — on  the  same  pattern  all.  It 
is  not  pretty  to  look  at.  A  dingy  little  brick 
house  twenty  feet  high,  with  three  square 
holes  to  carry  the  windows,  and  an  oblong 
hole  to  carry  the  door,  is  not  a  pleasing  ob. 
ject ;  and  eacjji  side  of  this  street  is  formed  by 
two  or  three  score  of  such  houses  in  a  row, 
with  one  front  wall  in  common.  And  the 
effect  is  as  of  stables. 

Round  the  corner  there  are  a  baker's,  a 
chandler's,  and  a  beer-shop.     They  are  not 


included  in  the  view  from  any  of  the  rect- 
angular holes ;  but  they  are  well  known  to 
every  denizen,  and  the  chandler  goes  to 
church  on  Sunday  and  pays  for  his  seat.  At 
the  opposite  end,  turnings  lead  to  streets 
less  rigidly  respectable  ;  some  where  "  Mang- 
ling done  here"  stares  from  windows,  and 
where  doors  are  left  carelessly  open  ;  others 
where  squalid  women  sit  on  door-steps,  and 
girls  go  to  factories  in  white  aprons.  Many 
such  turnings,  of  as  many  grades  of  decency, 
are  set  between  this  and  the  nearest  slum. 
They  are  not  a  very  noisy  or  obtrusive  lot  in 
this  street.  They  do  not  go  to  Hyde  Park 
with  banners,  and  they  seldom  fight.  It  is 
just  possible  that  one  or  two  among  them,  at 
some  point  in  a  life  of  ups  and  downs,  may 
have  been  indebted  to  a  coal  and  blanket 
fund ;  but  whosoever  these  may  be,  they 
would  rather  die  than  publish  the  disgrace, 
and  it  is  probable  that  they  very  nearly  did 
so  ere  submitting  to  it. 

Some  who  inhabit  this  street  are  in  the 
docks,  some  in  the  gasworks,  some  in  one  or 
other  of  the  few  shipbuilding  yards  that  yet 
survive  on  the  Thames.  Two  families  in  a 
house  is  the  general  rule,  for  there  are  six 
rooms  behind  each  set  of  holes  ;  this,  unless 
"  young  men  lodgers  "  are  taken  in,  or  there 


10 

are  grown  sons  paying  for  bed  and  board. 
As  for  the  grown  daughters,  they  marry  as 
soon  as  may  be.  Domestic  service  is  a  social 
descent,  and  little  under  millinery  and  dress- 
making is  compatible  with  self-respect.  The 
general  servant  may  be  caught  young  among 
the  turnings  at  the  end  where  mangling  is 
done;  and  the  factory  girls  live  still  further 
off,  in  places  skirting  slums. 

Every  morning  at  half-past  five  there  is  a 
curious  demonstration.  The  street  resounds 
with  thunderous  knockings,  repeated  upon 
door  after  door,  and  acknowledged  ever  by 
a  muffled  shout  from  within.  These  signals 
are  the  work  of  the  night-watchman  or  the 
early  policeman,  or  both,  and  they  summon 
the  sleepers  to  go  forth  to  the  docks,  the  gas- 
works and  the  ship-yards.  To  be  awakened  in 
this  wise  costs  fourpence  a  week,  and  for  this 
fourpencea  fierce  rivalry  rages  between  night- 
watchmen  and  policemen.  The  night-watch- 
man— a  sort  of  by-blow  of  the  ancient  "  Char- 
ley," and  himself  a  fast  vanishing  quantity — 
is  the  real  professional  performer  ;  but  he 
goes  to  the  wall,  because  a  large  connection 
must  be  worked  if  the  pursuit  is  to  pay  at 
fourpence  a  knocker.  Now,  it  is  not  easy  to 
bang  at  two  knockers  three-quarters  of  a 
mile  apart,  and   a   hundred  others   lying  be- 


II 

tween,  all  punctually  at  half-past  five.  Where- 
fore, the  policeman,  to  whom  the  fourpence 
is  but  a  perquisite,  and  who  is  content  with  a 
smaller  round,  is  rapidly  supplanting  the 
night-watchman,  whose  cry  of  "  Past  nine 
o'clock,"  as  he  collects  orders  in  the  evening, 
is  now  seldom  heard. 

The  knocking  and  the  shouting  pass,  and 
there  comes  the  noise  of  opening  and  shutting 
of  doors,  and  a  clattering  away  to  the  docks, 
the  gasworks  and  the  ship-yards.  Later, 
more  door-shutting  is  heard,  and  then  the 
trotting  of  sorrow-laden  little  feet  along  the 
grim  street  to  the  grim  Board  School  three 
grim  streets  off.  Then  silence,  save  for  a 
subdued  sound  of  scrubbing  here  and  there, 
and  the  puny  squall  of  croupy  infants.  After 
this,  a  new  trotting  of  little  feet  to  docks 
gasworks  and  ship-yards  with  father's  din- 
ner in  a  basin  and  a  red  handkerchief,  and 
so  to  the  Board  School  again.  More  muffled 
scrubbing  and  more  squalling,  and  perhaps  a 
feeble  attempt  or  two  at  decorating  the  blank- 
ness  of  a  square  hole  here  and  there  by  pour- 
ing water  into  a  grimy  flower-pot  full  of  dirt. 
Then  comes  the  trot  of  little  feet  toward  the 
oblong  holes,  heralding  the  slower  tread  of 
sooty  artisans ;  a  smell  of  bloater  up  and 
down  ;    nightfall  ;  the  fighting  of  boys  in  the 


12 


street,  perhaps  of  men  at  the  corner  near  the 
beer-shop  ;  sleep.  And  this  is  the  record  of 
a  day  in  this  street ;  and  every  day  is  hope- 
lessly the  same. 

Every  day,  that  is,  but  Sunday.  On  Sun- 
day morning  a  smell  of  cooking  floats  round 
the  corner  from  the  half-shut  baker's,  and  the 
little  feet  trot  down  the  street  under  steaming 
burdens  of  beef,  potatoes,  and  batter  pudding 
— the  lucky  little  feet  these,  with  Sunday 
boots  on  them,  when  father  is  in  good  work 
and  has  brought  home  all  his  money  ;  not 
the  poor  little  feet  in  worn  shoes,  carrying 
little  bodies  in  the  threadbare  clothes  of  all 
the  week,  when  father  is  out  of  work,  or  ill, 
or  drunk,  and  the  Sunday  cooking  may  very 
easily  be  done  at  home — if  there  be  any  to 
do.  " 

On  Sunday  morning  one  or  two  heads  of 
families  appear  in  wonderful  black  suits,  with 
unnumbered  creases  and  wrinklings  at  the 
seams.  At  their  sides  and  about  their  heels 
trot  the  unresting  little  feet,  and  from  under 
painful  little  velvet  caps  and  straw  hats  stare 
solemn  little  faces  toweled  to  a  polish. 
Thus  disposed  and  arrayed,  they  fare  gravely 
through  the  grim  little  streets  to  a  grim  Lit- 
tle Bethel  where  are  gathered  together  others 
in   like   garb   and   attendance  ;  and  for   two 


13 

hours  they  endure  the  frantic  menace  of  hell- 
fire. 

Most  of  the  men,  however,  lie  in  shirt  and 
trousers  on  their  beds  and  read  the  Sunday- 
paper  ;  while  some  are  driven  forth — for  they 
hinder  the  housework — to  loaf,  and  await  the 
opening  of  the  beer-shop  round  the  corner. 
Thus  goes  Sunday  in  this  street,  and  every 
Sunday  is  the  same  as  every  other  Sunday,  so 
that  one  monotony  is  broken  with  another. 
For  the  women,  however,  Sunday  is  much  as 
other  days,  except  that  there  is  rather  more 
work  for  them.  The  break  in  their  round  of 
the  week  is  washing  day. 

No  event  in  the  outer  world  makes  any 
impression  in  this  street.  Nations  may  rise, 
or  may  totter  in  ruin  ;  but  here  the  colorless 
day  will  work  through  its  twenty-four  hours 
just  as  it  did  yesterday,  and  just  as  it  will 
to-morrow.  Without  there  may  be  party 
strife,  wars  and  rumors  of  wars,  public  rejoic- 
ings ;  but  the  trotting  of  the  little  feet  will  be 
neither  quickened  nor  stayed.  Those  quaint 
little  women,  the  girl-children  of  this  street, 
who  use  a  motherly  management  toward  all 
girl-things  younger  than  themselves,  and 
toward  all  boys  as  old  or  older,  with  "  Bless 
the  child!"  or  "Drat  the  children  !"— those 
quaint  little  women  will  still  go  marketing 


14 

with  big  baskets,  and  will  regard  the  price  of 
bacon  as  chief  among  human  considerations. 
Nothing  disturbs  this  street — nothing  but  a 
strike. 

Nobody  laughs  here — life  is  too  serious  a 
tiling;  nobody  sings.  Thei^e  was  once  a 
woman  who  sang — a  young  wife  from  the 
country.  But  she  bore  children,  and  her 
voice  cracked.  Then  her  man  died,  and  she 
sang  no  more.  They  took  away  her  home, 
and  with  her  children  about  her  skirts  she 
left  this  street  forever.  The  other  women 
did  not  think  much  of  her.  She  was  "  help- 
less." 

One  of  the  square  holes  in  this  street — one 
of  the  single,  ground-floor  holes — is  found,  on 
individual  examination,  to  differ  from  the 
others.  There  has  been  an  attempt  to  make 
it  into  a  shop-window.  Half  a  dozen  candles, 
a  few  sickly  sugar-sticks,  certain  shriveled 
bloaters,  some  boot-laces,  and  a  bundle  or  two 
of  firewood,  compose  a  stock  which  at  night 
is  sometimes  lighted  by  a  little  paraflfine  lamp 
in  a  tin  sconce,  and  sometimes  by  a  candle. 
A  widow  lives  here — a  gaunt,  bony  widow, 
with  sunken,  red  eyes.  She  has  other 
sources  of  income  than  the  candles  and  the 
bootlaces;  she  washes  and  chars  all  day,  and 
she  sews  cheap  shirts  at  night.     Two  "young 


i5 

men  lodgers,"  moreover,  sleep  upstairs,  and 
the  children  sleep  in  the  back  room  ;  she  her- 
self is  supposed  not  to  sleep  at  all.  The 
policeman  does  not  knock  here  in  the  morn- 
ing— the  widow  wakes  the  lodgers  herself  : 
and  nobody  in  the  street  behind  ever  looks 
out  of  window  before  going  to  bed,  no  matter 
how  late,  without  seeing  a  light  in  the 
widow's  room  where  she  plies  her  needle. 
She  is  a  quiet  woman,  who  speaks  little  with 
her  neighbors,  having  other  things  to  do  :  a 
woman  of  pronounced  character,  to  whom  it 
would  be  unadvisable — even  dangerous — to 
offer  coals  or  blankets.  Hers  was  the  strong- 
est contempt  for  the  helpless  woman  who 
sang:  a  contempt  whose  added  bitterness 
might  be  traced  to  its  source.  For  when  the 
singing  woman  was  marketing,  from  which 
door  of  the  pawnshop  had  she  twice  met  the 
widow  coming  forth? 

This  is  not  a  dirty  street,  taken  as  a  whole. 
The  widow's  house  is  one  of  the  cleanest,  and 
the  widow's  children  match  the  house.  The 
one  house  cleaner  than  the  widow's  is  ruled 
by  a  despotic  Scotchwoman,  who  drives 
every  hawker  off  her  whitened  step,  and  rubs 
her  door  handle  if  a  hand  have  rested  on  it. 
The  Scotchwoman  has  made  several  attempts 


i6 


to  accommodate  "young  men  lodgers,"  but 
they  have  ended  in  shrill  rows. 

There  is  no  house  without  children  in  this 
street,  and  the  number  of  them  grows  ever 
and  ever  greater.  Nine-tenths  of  the  doctor's 
visits  are  on  this  account  alone,  and  his  ap- 
pearances are  the  chief  matter  of  such  con- 
versation as  the  women  make  across  the 
fences.  One  after  another  the  little  stran- 
gers come,  to  live  through  lives  as  flat  and 
colorless  as  the  day's  life  in  this  street.  Ex- 
istence dawns,  and  the  doctor-watchman's 
door  knock  resounds  along  the  row  of  rect- 
angular holes.  Then  a  muffled  cry  announces 
that  a  small  new  being  has  come  to  trudge 
and  sweat  its  way  in  the  appointed  groove. 
Later  the  trotting  of  little  feet  and  the  school ; 
the  mid-day  play  hour,  when  love  peeps  even 
into  this  street;  after  that  more  trotting  of 
little  feet — strange  little  feet,  new  little  feet — 
and  the  scrubbing,  and  the  squalling,  and  the 
barren  flower-pot ;  the  end  of  the  sooty  day's 
work  ;  the  last  home-coming  ;  nightfall  ; 
sleep. 

When  love's  light  falls  into  some  corner  of 
the  street,  it  falls  at  an  early  hour  of  this 
mean  life,  and  is  itself  but  a  dusty  ray.  It 
falls  early,  because  it  is  the  sole  bright  thing 
which  the  street  sees,  and  is  watched  for  and 


17 

counted  on.  Lads  and  lasses,  awkwardly 
arm-in-arm,  go  pacing  up  and  down  this 
street,  before  the  natural  interest  in  marbles 
and  doll's  houses  would  have  left  them  in  a 
brighter  place.  They  are  "keeping  com- 
pany;" the  manner  of  which  proceeding  is 
indigenous — is  a  custom  native  to  the  place. 
The  young  people  first  "  walk  out  "  in  pairs. 
There  is  no  exchange  of  promises,  no  troth- 
plight,  no  engagement,  no  love-talk.  They 
patrol  the  streets  side  by  side,  usually  in 
silence,  sometimes  with  fatuous  chatter. 
There  are  no  dances,  no  tennis,  no  water- 
parties,  no  picnics  to  bring  them  together; 
so  they  must  walk  out,  or  be  unacquainted. 
If  two  of  them  grow  dissatisfied  with  each 
other's  company,  nothing  is  easier  than  to 
separate  and  walk  out  with  somebody  else. 
When  by  these  means  each  has  found  a  fit 
mate  (or  thinks  so),  a  ring  is  bought,  and  the 
odd  association  becomes  a  regular  engage- 
ment ;  but  this  is  not  until  the  walking  out 
has  endured  for  many  months.  The  two 
stages  of  courtship  are  spoken  of  indiscrimin- 
ately as  "  keeping  company,"  but  a  very  care- 
ful distinction  is  drawn  between  them  by  the 
parties  concerned.  Nevertheless,  in  the 
walking-out  period  it  would  be  almost  as 
great  a  breach  of  faith  for  either  to  walk  out 


i8 

with  more  than  one,  as  it  would  be  if  the  full 
engagement  had  been  made.  And  love- 
making  in  this  street  is  a  dreary  thing,  when 
one  thinks  of  love-making  in  other  places.  It 
begins — and  it  ends — too  soon. 

Nobody  from  this  street  goes  to  the  theatre. 
That  would  mean  a  long  journey,  and  it 
would  cost  money  which  might  buy  bread 
and  beer  and  boots.  For  those,  too,  who 
wear  black  Sunday  suits  it  would  be  siniul. 
Nobody  reads  poetry  or  romance.  The  very 
words  are  foreign.  A  Sunday  paper  in  some 
few  houses  provides  such  reading  as  this 
street  is  disposed  to  achieve.  Now  and  again 
a  penny  novel  has  been  found  among  the  pri- 
vate treasures  of  a  growing  daughter,  and 
has  been  wrathfully  confiscated.  For  the  air 
of  this  street  is  unfavorable  to  the  ideal. 

Yet  there  are  aspirations.  There  has  lately 
come  into  the  street  a  young  man  lodger 
who  belongs  to  a  Mutual  Improvement  -So- 
ciety. Membership  in  this  society  is  re- 
garded as  a  sort  of  learned  degree,  and  at  its 
meetings  debates  are  held  and  papers  smugly 
read  by  lamentably  self-satisfied  young  men 
lodgers,  whose  only  preparation  for  debating 
and  writing  is  a  fathomless  ignorance.  For 
ignorance  is  the  inevitable  portion  of  dwell- 


'9 

ers   here  ;  seeing   nothing,  reading  nothing, 
and  considering  nothing. 

Where  in  the  East  End  lies  this  street? 
Everywhere.  The  hundred-and-fifty  yards  is 
only  a  link  in  a  long  and  a  mightily  tangled 
chain — is  only  a  turn  in  a  tortuous  maze. 
This  street  of  the  square  holes  is  hundreds 
of  miles  long.  That  it  is  planned  in  short 
lengths  is  true,  but  there  is  no  other  way  in 
the  world  that  can  more  properly  be  called  a 
single  street,  because  of  its  dismal  lack  of 
accent,  its  sordid  uniformity,  its  utter  re- 
moteness from  delight. 


LIZERUNT 


LIZER  S   WOOING 

Somewhere  in  the  register  was  written 
the  name  Elizabeth  Hunt ;  but  seventeen 
years  after  the  entry  the  spoken  name  was 
Lizerunt.  Lizerunt  worked  at  a  pickle  fac- 
tory, and  appeared  abroad  in  an  elaborate 
and  shabby  costume,  usually  supplemented 
by  a  white  apron.  Withal  she  was  some- 
thing of  a  beauty.  That  is  to  say,  her  cheeks 
were  very  red,  her  teeth  were  very  large  and 
white,  her  nose  was  small  and  snub,  and  her 
fringe  was  long  and  shiny  ;  while  her  face, 
new-washed,  was  susceptible  of  a  high  polish. 
Many  such  girls  are  married  at  sixteen,  but 
Lizerunt  was  belated,  and  had  never  a  bloke 
at  all. 

Billy  Chope  was  a  year  older  than  Lizej- 

[21] 


22 


unt.  He  wore  a  billycock  with  a  thin  brim 
and  a  permanent  dent  in  the  crown  ;  he  had 
a  bobtail  coat,  with  the  collar  turned  up  at 
one  side  and  down  at  the  other,  as  an  expres- 
sion of  independence  ;  between  his  meals  he 
carried  his  hands  in  his  breeches' pockets ; 
and  he  lived  with  his  mother,  who  mangled. 
His  conversation  with  Lizerunt  consisted 
long  of  perfunctory  nods ;  but  great  things 
happened  this  especial  Thursday  evening,  as 
Lizerunt,  making  for  home,  followed  the  fad- 
ing red  beyond  the  furthermost  end  of  Com- 
mercial Road.  For  Billy  Chope,  slouching 
in  the  opposite  direction,  lurched  across  the 
pavement  as  they  met,  and  taking  the  nearer 
hand  from  his  pocket,  caught  and  twisted  her 
arm,  bumping  her  against  the  wall. 

"  Gain,"  said  Lizerunt,  greatly  pleased  ; 
"  le'  go  !"     For  she  knew   that  this  was  love. 

"  Where  yer  auf  to,  Lizer  ?" 

"  'Ome,  o'  course,  cheeky.  Le'  go  ;"  and 
she  snatched — in  vain — at  Billy's  hat. 

Billy  let  go,  and  capered  in  front  of  her. 
She  feigned  to  dodge  by  him,  careful  not  to 
be  too  quick,  because  affairs  were  develop- 
ing. 

"  I  say,  Lizer,"  said  Billy,  stopping  his 
dance  and  becoming  business-like,  "goin'  any- 
where Monday  ?" 


23 

"  Not  along  o'  you,  cheeky  ;  you  go  'long 
o'  Beller  Dawson,  like  wot  you  did  Easter." 

"  Blow,  Beller  Dawson  ;  she  ain't  no  good. 
I'm  goin'  on  the  Flats.     Come?" 

Lizerunt,  delighted  but  derisive,  ended 
with  a  promise  to  "  see."  The  bloke  had  come 
at  last,  and  she  walked  home  with  the  feeling 
of  having  taken  her  degree.  She  had  half 
assured  herself  of  it  two  days  before,  when 
Sam  Cardew  threw  an  orange  peel  at  her, 
but  went  away  after  a  little  prancing  on  the 
pavement.  Sam  was  a  smarter  fellow  than 
Billy,  and  earned  his  own  living  ;  probably 
his  attentions  were  serious  ;  but  one  must 
prefer  the  bird  in  hand.  As  for  Billy  Chope, 
he  went  his  way,  resolved  himself  to  take 
home  what  mangling  he  should  find  his 
mother  had  finished,  and  stick  to  the  money  ; 
also,  to  get  all  he  could  from  her  by  bland- 
ishing and  bullying,  that  the  jaunt  to  Wan- 
stead  Flats  might  be  adequately  done. 

There  is  no  other  fair  like  Whit  Monday's 
on  Wanstead  Flats.  Here  is  a  square  mile 
and  more  of  open  land  where  you  may  howl 
at  large  ;  here  is  no  danger  of  losing  yourself 
as  in  Epping  Forest ;  the  public  houses  are 
always  with  you  ;  shows,  shies,  swings, 
merry-go-rounds,    fried    fish    stalls,    donkeys 


24 

are  packed  closer  than  on  Hampstead 
Heath  ;  the  ladies'  tormentors  are  larger,  and 
their  contents  smell  worse  than  at  any  other 
fair.  Also,  yon  may  be  drunk  and  disorderly 
without  being-  locked  up, — for  the  stations 
won't  hold  everybody, —  and  when  all  else 
has  palled,  you  may  set  fire  to  the  turf. 
Hereinto  Billy  and  Lizerunt  projected  them- 
selves from  the  doors  of  the  Holly  Tree  on 
Whit  Monday  morning.  But  through  hours 
on  hours  of  fried  fish  and  half-pints  both  were 
conscious  of  a  deficiency.  For  the  hat  of 
Lizerunt  was  brown  and  old  ;  plush  it  was 
not,  and  its  feather  was  a  mere  foot  long  and 
of  a  very  rusty  black.  Now,  it  is  not  decent 
for  a  factory  girl  from  Limehouse  to  go 
bank-holidaying-  under  any  but  a  hat  of 
plush,  very  high  in  the  crown,  of  a  wild  blue 
or  a  wilder  green,  and  carrying  withal  an 
ostrich  feather,  pink  or  scarlet  or  what  not; 
a  feather  that  springs  from  the  fore-part, 
climbs  the  crown,  and  drops  as  far  down  the 
shoulders  as  may  be.  Lizerunt  knew  this, 
and,  had  she  had  no  bloke,  would  have 
stayed  at  home.  But  a  chance  is  a  chance. 
As  it  was  only  another  such  hapless  girl 
could  measure  her  bitter  envy  of  the  feathers 
about  her,  or.  would  so  joyfully  have  given 
an  ear  for  the  proper   splendor.     Billy,  too, 


25 

had  a  vague  impression,  muddled  by  but  not 
drowned  in  half-pints,  that  some  degree  of 
plush  was  condign  to  the  occasion  and  to 
his  own  expenditure.  Still,  there  was  no 
quarrel ;  and  the  pair  walked  and  ran  with 
arms  about  each  other's  necks  ;  and  Lizerunt 
thumped  her  bloke  on  the  back  at  proper 
intervals;  so  that  the  affair  went  regularly 
on  the  whole,  although,  in  view  of  Lizerunt's 
shortcomings,  Billy  did  not  insist  on  the 
customary  exchange  of  hats. 

Everything,  I  say,  went  well  and  well 
enough  until  Billy  bought  a  ladies'  tormentor 
and  began  to*  squirt  it  at  Lizerunt.  For  then 
Lizerunt  went  scampering  madly,  with  pierc- 
ing shrieks,  until  her  bloke  was  left  some 
little  way  behind,  and  Sam  Cardew,  turning 
up  at  that  moment  and  seeing  her  running 
alone.jn  the  crowd,  threw  his  arms  about  her 
wais^sand  swung  her  round  him  again  and 
again^  as  he  floundered  gallantly  this  way 
and  that,  among  the  shies  and  the  hokey- 
pokey  barrows. 

"  'Ullo,  Lizer  !  Where  are  y' a-comin'  to? 
If  I  'adn't  laid  'old  o'  ye —  !"  But  here  Billy 
Chope  arrived  to  demand  what  the  'ell  Sam 
Cardew  was  doing  with  his  gal.  Now  Sam 
was  ever  readier  for  a  fight  than  Billy  was; 
but  the  sum  of   Billy's  half  pints  was  large ; 


26 


wherefore  the  fight  began.  On  the  skirt  of 
an  hilarious  ring,  Lizcrunt,  after  some  small 
outcry,  triumphed  aloud.  Four  days  before, 
she  had  no  bloke  ;  and  here  she  stood  with 
two,  and  those  two  fighting  for  her !  Here 
in  the  public  gaze,  on  the  Flats!  For  almost 
five  minutes  she  was  Helen  of  Troy. 

And  in  much  less  time  Billy  tasted  repent- 
ance. The  haze  of  half-pints  was  dispelled, 
and  some  teeth  went  with  it.  Presently, 
whimpering  and  with  a  bloody  muzzle,  he 
rose  and  made  a  running  kick  at  the  other. 
Then,  being  thwarted  in  a  bolt,  he  flung  him- 
self down  ;  and  it  was  like  to  go  hard  with 
him  at  the  hands  of  the  crowd.  Punch  you 
may  on  Wanstead  Flats,  but  execration  and 
worse  is  your  portion  if  you  kick  anybody 
except  your  wife.  But,  as  the  ring  closed, 
the  helmets  of  two  policemen  were  seen  to 
be  working  in  over  the  surrounding  heads 
and  Sam  Cardew,  quickly  assuming  his  coat, 
turned  away  with  such  an  air  of  blameless- 
ness  as  is  practicable  with  a  damaged  eye  ; 
while  Billy  went  off  unheeded  in  an  opposite 
direction. 

Lizerunt  and  her  new  bloke  went  the 
routine  of  half-pints  and  merry-go-rounds 
and  were  soon  on  right  thumping  terms; 
and  Lizerunt  was  as  well  satisfied   with  the 


2/ 

issue  as  she  was  proud  of  the  adventure. 
Billy  was  all  very  well  ;  but  Sam  was  better. 
She  resolved  to  draw  him  for  a  feathered 
hat  before  next  bank  holiday.  So  the  sun 
went  down  on  her  and  her  bloke  hanging  on 
each  other's  necks  and  straggling  toward 
the  Romford  Road  with  shouts  and  choruses. 
The  rest  was  tram-car,  Bow  Music  Hall, 
half-pints,  and  darkness. 

Billy  took  home  his  wounds,  and  his 
mother,  having  moved  his  wrath  by  asking 
their  origin,  sought  refuge  with  a  neighbor. 
He  accomplished  his  revenge  in  two  install- 
ments. Two  nights  later  Lizerunt  was  going 
with  a  jug  of  beer  ;  when  somebody  sprang 
from  a  dark  corner,  landed  her  under  the  ear, 
knocked  her  sprawling,  and  made  off  to  the 
sound  of  her  lamentations.  She  did  not  see 
who  it  was,  but  she  knew  ;  and  next  day  Sam 
Cardew  was  swearing  he'd  break  Billy's 
back.  He  did  not,  however,  for  that  same 
evening  a  gang  of  seven  or  eight  fell  on  him 
with  sticks  and  belts.  (They  were  Cause- 
way chaps,  while  Sam  was  a  Brady's  Laner, 
which  would  have  been  reason  enough  by  it- 
self, even  if  Billy  Chope  had  not  been  one  of 
them.)  Sam  did  his  best  for  a  burst  through 
and  a  run,    but  they  pulled  and  battered  him 


28 

down  ;  and  they  kicked  him  about  the  head, 
and  they  kicked  him  about  the  bell}-  ;  and 
the}7  took  to  their  heels  when  he  was  speech- 
less and  still. 

He  lay  at  home  for  near  four  weeks,  and 
when  he  stood  up  again  it  was  in  many  ban- 
dages. Lizerunt  came  often  to  his  bedside, 
and  twice  she  brought  an  orange.  On  these 
occasions  there  was  much  talk  of  vengeance. 
But  the  weeks  went  on.  It  was  a  month 
since  Sam  had  left  his  bed  ;  and  Lizerunt  was 
getting  a  little  tired  of  bandages.  Also,  she 
had  begun  to  doubt  and  to  consider  bank 
holiday — scarce  a  fortnight  off.  For  Sam 
was  stone  broke,  and  a  plush  hat  was  further 
away  than  ever.  And  all  through  the  later 
of  these  weeks  Billy  Chope  was  harder  than 
ever  on  his  mother,  and  she,  well  knowing 
that  if  he  helped  her  by  taking  home  he 
would  pocket  the  money  at  the  other  end, 
had  taken  to  finishing  and  delivering  in  his 
absence,  and,  threats  failing  to  get  at  the 
money,  Billy  Chope  was  impelled  to  punch 
her  head  and  gripe  her  by  the  throat. 

There  was  a  milliner's  window,  with  a  show 
of  nothing  but  fashionable  plush-and-feather 
hats,  and  Lizerunt  was  lingering  hereabouts 
one  evening,    when    some  one  took  her  by 


29 

the  waist,  and  some  one  said,  "  Which  d'yer 
like,  Lizer? — The  yullerun?" 

Lizerunt  turned  and  saw  that  it  was  Billy. 
She  pulled  herself  away,  and  backed  off,  sul- 
len and  distrustful.     "  Garn,"  she  said. 

"  Straight,"  said  Billy,  "  I'll  sport  yer  one. 
...     No  kid,  I  will." 

"  Garn,"  said  Lizerunt  once  more.  "  Wot 
yer  gittin'  at  now  ?" 

But  presently,  being  convinced  that  bash- 
ing wasn't  in  it,  she  approached  less  guard- 
edly ;  and  she  went  away  with  a  paper  bag 
and  the  reddest  of  all  the  plushes  and  the 
bluest  of  all  the  feathers;  a  hat  that  chal- 
lenged all  the  Flats  the  next  bank  holiday,  a 
hat  for  which  no  girl  need  have  hesitated  to 
sell  her  soul.  As  for  Bill}'',  why,  he  was  as 
good  as  another ;  and  you  can't  have  every- 
thing ;  and  Sam  Cardew,  with  his  bandages 
and  his  grunts  and  groans,  was  no  great  catch 
after  all. 

This  was  the  wooing  of  Lizerunt  ;  for  in  a 
few  months  she  and  Billy  married  under  the 
blessing  of  a  benignant  rector,  who  periodi- 
cally set  aside  a  day  for  free  weddings,  and, 
on  principle,  encouraged  early  matrimony. 
And  they  lived  with  Billy's  mother. 


II 

lizer's  first 

When  Billy  Chope  married  Lizerunt 
there  was  a  small  rejoicing.  There  was  no 
wedding-party ;  because  it  was  considered 
that  what  there  might  be  to  drink  would  be 
better  in  the  family.  Lizerunt's  father  was 
not,  and  her  mother  felt  no  interest  in  the 
affair  ;  not  having  seen  her  daughter  for  a 
year,  and  happening,  at  the  time,  to  have  a 
month's  engagement  in  respect  of  a  drunk 
and  disorderly.  So  that  there  were  but 
three  of  them  ;  and  Billy  Chope  got  exceed- 
ingly tipsy  early  in  the  day  ;  and  in  the 
evening  his  bride  bawled  a  continual  chorus, 
while  his  mother,  influenced  by  that  unwonted 
quartern  of  gin  the  occasion  sanctioned,  wept 
dismally  over  her  boy,  who  was  much  too  far 
gone  to  resent  it. 

His  was  the  chief  reason  for  rejoicing. 
For  Lizerunt  had  always  been  able  to  extract 

[30] 


3i 

ten  shillings  a  week  from  the  pickle  factory, 
and  it  was  to  be  presumed  that  as  Lizer 
Chope  her  earning  capacity  would  not  dimin- 
ish ;  and  the  wages  would  make  a  very 
respectable  addition  to  the  precarious  rev- 
enue, depending  on  the  mangle,  that  Billy 
extorted  from  his  mother.  As  for  Lizer,  she 
was  married.  That  was  the  considerable 
thing  ;  for  she  was  but  a  few  months  short 
of  eighteen,  and  that,  as  you  know,  is  a  little 
late. 

Of  course  there  were  quarrels  very  soon  ; 
for  the  new  Mrs.  Chope,  less  submissive  at 
first  than  her  mother-in-law,  took  a  little 
breaking  in,  and  a  liberal  renewal  of  the 
manual  treatment  once  applied  in  her  court- 
ing days.  But  the  quarrels  between  the 
women  were  comforting  to  Billy  ;  a  diver- 
sion and  a  source  of  better  service. 

As  soon  as  might  be  Lizer  took  the  way  of 
womankind.  This  circumstance  brought  an 
unexpected  half-crown  from  the  evangelical 
rector  who  had  married  the  couple  gratis ; 
for  recognizing  Billy  in  the  street  by  acci- 
dent, and  being  told  of  Mrs.  Chope's  pros- 
pects, as  well  as  that  Billy  was  out  of  work 
(a  fact  undeniable),  he  reflected  that  his 
principles  did  on  occasion  lead  to  discomfort 
of  a  material  sort.     And  Billy,  to  whose  com- 


32 

prehension  the  half-crown  opened  a  new  field 
of  receipt,  would  doubtless  have  long  re- 
mained a  client  of  the  rector,  had  not  that 
zealot  hastened  to  discover  a  vacancy  for  a 
warehouse  porter,  the  offer  of  presentation 
whereunto  alienated  Billy  Chope  forever. 
But  there  were  meetings  and  demonstrations 
of  the  Unemployed  ;  and  it  was  said  that 
shillings  had  been  given  away  ;  and,  as  being 
at  a  meeting  in  a  street  was  at  least  as  amus- 
ing as  being  in  a  street  where  there  was  no 
meeting,  Bill}'  often  went,  on  the  off  chance. 
But  his  lot  was  chiefly  disappointment, 
wherefore  he  became  more  especially  careful 
to  furnish  himself  ere  he  left  home. 

For  certain  weeks  cash  came  less  freely 
than  ever  from  the  two  women.  Lizer  spoke 
of  providing  for  the  necessities  of  the  ex- 
pected child  ;  a  manifestly  absurd  proced- 
ure, as  Billy  pointed  out,  since,  if  they  were 
unable  to  clothe  or  feed  it,  the  duty  would 
fall  on  its  grandmother.  That  was  law,  and 
nobody  could  get  over  it.  But  even  with 
this  argument,  a  shilling  cost  him  many  more 
demands  and  threats  than  it  had  used,  and  a 
deal  more  general  trouble. 

At  last  Lizer  ceased  from  going  to  the 
pickle  factory,  and  could  not  even  help  Billy's 
mother  at  the  mangle  for  long.     This  lasted 


33 

for  near  a  week,  when  Billy,  rising  at  ten 
with  a  bad  mouth,  resolved  to  stand  no 
nonsense,  and  demanded  two  shillings. 

"  Two  bob  ?     Wot  for  ?"     Lizer  asked. 

"  '  Cos  I  want  it.     None  o'  yer  lip." 

"  Ain't  got  it,"  said  Lizer  sulkily. 

"  That's  a  bleed'n'  lie." 

"  Lie  yerself." 

"I'll  break  y'in  'arves,  ye  blasted 'eifer!" 
He  ran  at  her  throat  and  forced  her  back 
over  a  chair.  "  I  11  pull  yer  face  auf !  If  y' 
don't  give  me  the  money,  gawblimy,  I'll 
do  for  ye  !" 

Lizer  strained  and  squalled.  "  Le'  go'. 
You'll  kill  me  an'  the  kid  too  !"  she  grunted 
hoarsely.  Billy's  mother  ran  in  and  threw 
her  arms  about  him,  dragging  him  away. 
"  Don't  Billy,"  she  said,  in  terror.  "  Don't 
Billy — not  now  !  You'll  get  in  trouble. 
Come  away!  She  might  go  auf,  an'  you'd 
get  in  trouble  !" 

Billy  Chope  flung  his  wife  over  and  turned 
to  his  mother.  "  Take  yer  'ands  auf  me,"  he 
said;  "go  on,  or  I'll  gi'  ye  somethin'  for 
yerself."  And  he  punched  her  in  the  breast 
by  way  of  illustration. 

"You  shall  'ave  what  I've  got,  Billy,  if  it's 
money,"  the  mother  said.     "  But  don't  go  an' 


34 

git  ycrself  in  trouble,  don't.  Will  a 
shillin'  do  ?" 

"No,  it  won't.  Think  I'm  a  bloomin'  kid  p 
I  mean  'avin'  two  bob  this  mornin'." 

"I  was  a-keepin'  it  for  the  rent,  Billy, 
but—" 

"  Yus  ;  think  o'  the  bleed'n'  lan'lord  'fore 
me,  doncher  ?"  And  he  pocketed  the  two 
shillings.  "  I  ain't  settled  with  you  yut,  my 
gal,"  he  added  to  Lizer ;  "mikin*  about  at 
'ome  an'  'idin'  money.     You  wait  a  bit." 

Lizer  had  climbed  into  an  erect  position, 
and,  gravid  and  slow,  had  got  as  far  as  the 
passage.  Mistaking  this  for  a  safe  distance, 
she  replied  with  defiant  railings.  Billy  made 
for  her  with  a  kick  that  laid  her  on  the  lower 
stairs,  and,  swinging  his  legs  round  his 
mother  as  she  obstructed  him,  entreating 
him  not  to  get  in  trouble,  he  attempted  to 
kick  again  in  a  more  telling  spot.  But  a 
movement  among  the  family  upstairs  and  a 
tap  at  the  door  hinted  of  interference,  and  he 
took  himself  off. 

Lizer  lay  doubled  up  on  the  stairs,  howl- 
ing ;  but  her  only  articulate  cry  was, — "Gawd 
'elp  me,  it's  comin' !" 

Billy  went  to  the  meeting  of  the  Unem- 
ployed, and  cheered  a  proposal  to  storm  the 
Tower  of  London.     But  he  did  not  join  the 


35 

procession  following  a  man  with  a  handker- 
chief on  a  stick,  who  promised  destruction  to 
every  policeman  in  his  path,  for  he  knew  the 
fate  of  such  processions.  With  a  few  others 
he  hung  about  the  nearest  tavern  for  a  while, 
on  the  chance  of  the  advent  of  a  flush  sailor 
from  St.  Katharine's,  disposed  to  treat  out-o'- 
workers.  Then  he  went  alone  to  a  quieter 
beer-house  and  took  a  pint  or  two  at  his  own 
expense.  A  glance  down  the  music-hall  bills 
hanging  in  the  bar  having  given  him  a  notion 
for  the  evening,  he  bethought  himself  of 
dinner,  and  made  for  home. 

The  front  door  was  open,  and  in  the  first 
room,  where  the  mangle  stood,  there  were  no 
signs  of  dinner.  And  this  was  at  three 
o'clock!  Billy  pushed  into  the  room  behind, 
demanding  why. 

"  Billy,"  Lizer  said  faintly  from  her  bed, 
"  look  at  the  baby!" 

Something  was  moving  feebly  under  a 
flannel  petticoat.  Billy  pulled  the  petticoat, 
aside,  and  said, — "  That  ?  Well,  it  is  a  measly 
snipe."  It  was  a  blind,  hairless  homunculus, 
short  of  a  foot  long,  with  a  skinny  face  set  in 
a  great  skull.  There  was  a  black  bruise  on 
one  side  from  hip  to  armpit.  Billy  dropped 
the  petticoat  and  said :  "  Where's  my  din- 
ner?" 


3<5 

"  I  dunno,"  Lizer  responded  hazily.  "  Wot's 
the  time  ?" 

"Time?  Don't  try  to  kid  me.  You  git 
up;  go  on.     I  want  my  dinner." 

"  Mother's  git  tin'  it,  I  think,"  said  Lizer. 
"  Doctor  had  to  slap  'im  like  anythink  'fore 
'e'd  cry.     'E  don't  cry  now  much.     'E — " 

"  Go  on  ;  out  ye  git.  I  do'  want  no  more 
damn  jaw.     Git  my  dinner." 

"  I'm  a-gittin'  of  it,  Billy,"  his  mother  said, 
at  the  door.  She  had  begun  when  he  first 
entered.     "  It  won't  be  a  minute." 

"  You  come  'ere;  y'aint  alwis  s'  ready  to 
do  'er  work,  are  ye  ?  She  ain't  no  call  to 
stop  there  no  longer,  an*  I  owe  'er  one  for 
this  morning.'  Will  ye  git  out,  or  shall  I 
kick  ye  ?" 

"  She  can't,  Bill)',"  his  mother  said.  And 
Lizer  sniveled  and  said  :  "  You're  a  damn 
brute.     Y'onght  to  be  bleedin'  well  booted." 

But  Billy  had  her  by  the  shoulders  and 
began  to  haul  ;  and  again  his  mother  besought, 
him  to  remember  what  he  might  bring  upon 
himself.  At  this  moment  the  doctor's  dis- 
penser, a  fourth-year  London  Hospital  stu- 
dent of  many  inches,  who  had  been  washing 
his  hands  in  the  kitchen,  came  in.  For  a 
moment  he  failed  to  comprehend  the  scene. 
Then    he    took    Billy    Chope    by   the    collar, 


37 

hauled  him  pell-mell  along  the  passage,  kicked 
him  (hard)  into  the  gutter,  and  shut  the  door. 

When  he  returned  to  the  room,  Lizer, 
sitting  up  and  holding  on  by  the  bed-frame, 
gasped  hysterically:  "  Ye  bleedin'  makeshift, 
I'd  'ave  yer  liver  out  if  I  could  reach  ye! 
You  touch  my  'usband,  ye  long  pisenin'  'ound 
you  !  Ow  !"  And,  infirm  of  aim,  she  flung 
a  cracked  tea-cup  at  his  head.  Billy's  mother 
said  :  "  Y'ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself, 
you  low  blaggard.  If  'is  father  was  alive  'e'd 
knock  yer  'ead  auf.  Call  yourself  a  doctor — 
a  passel  o'  boys  !  Git  out !  Go  out  o*  my 
'ouse  or  I'll  give  y'in  charge  !" 

"But — why,  hang  it,  he'd  have  killed  her." 
Then  to  Lizer  :  "  Lie  down." 

"  Sha'n't  lay  down.  Keep  auf !  if  you 
come  near  me  I'll  corpse  ye.  You  go  while 
ye're  safe  ?" 

The  dispenser  appealed  to  Billy's  mother. 
"  For  God's  sake  make  her  lie  down.  She'll 
kill  herself.  I'll  go.  Perhaps  the  doctor 
had  better  come."  And  he  went,  leaving  the 
coast  clear  for  Billy  Cho.pe  to  return  and 
avenge  his  kicking. 


Ill 

A   CHANGE   OF   CIRCUMSTANCES 

LlZER  was  some  months  short  of  twenty- 
one  when  her  third  child  was  born.  The 
pickle  factory  had  discarded  her  some  time 
before,  and  since  that  her  trade  had  consisted 
in  odd  jobs  of  charing.  Odd  jobs  of  charing 
have  a  shade  the  better  of  a  pickle  factory  in 
the  matter  of  respectability,  but  they  are 
precarious,  and  they  are  worse  paid  at  that. 
In  the  East  End  they  are  sporadic  and  few. 
Moreover,  it  is  in  the  household  where  paid 
help  is  a  rarity  that  the  bitterness  of  serv- 
itude is  felt.  Also,  the  uncertainty  and  ir- 
regularity of  the  returns  were  a  trouble  to 
Billy  Chope.  He  was  never  sure  of  having 
got  them  all.  It  might  be  ninepence,  or  a 
shilling  or  eighteen  pence.  Once  or  twice, 
to  his  knowledge,  it  had  been  half  a  crown, 
from  a  chance  job  at  a  doctor's  or  a  parson's, 
and    once   it   was  three  shillings.       That   it 

[38] 


39 

might  be  half  a  crown  or  three  shillings 
again,  and  that  some  of  it  was  being  kept 
back,  was  ever  the  suspicion  evoked  by 
Lizer's  evening  homing.  Plainly,  with  these 
fluctuating  and  uncertain  revenues,  more  bash- 
ing than  ever  was  needed  to  insure  the  ex- 
traction of  the  last  copper;  empty-handed- 
ness  called  for  bashing  on  its  own  account ; 
so  that  it  was  often  Lizer's  hap  to  be  refused  a 
job  because  of  a  black  eye. 

Lizer's  self  was  scarcely  what  it  had  been. 
The  red  of  her  cheeks,  once  bounded  only  by 
the  eyes  and  the  mouth,  had  shrunk  to  a  spot 
in  the  depth  of  each  hollow  ;  gaps  had  been 
driven  in  her  big  white  teeth  ;  even  the  snub 
nose  had  run  to  a  point,  and  the  fringe  hung 
dry  and  ragged,  while  the  bodily  outline  was 
as  a  sack's.  At  home,  the  children  lay  in  her 
arms  or  tumbled  at  her  heels,  puling  and  foul. 
Whenever  she  was  near  it,  there  was  the 
mangle  to  be  turned ;  for  lately  Billy's 
mother  had  exhibited  a  strange  weakness, 
sometimes  collapsing  with  a  gasp  in  the  act 
of  brisk  or  prolonged  exertion,  and  often 
leaning  on  whatever  stood  hard  by  and  grasp- 
ing at  her  side.  This  ailment  she  treated, 
when  she  had  twopence,  in  such  terms  as 
made  her  smell  of  gin  and  peppermint ;  and 
more   than  once  this  circumstance    had  in- 


40 

flamed  the  breast  of  Billy  her  son,  who  was 
morally  angered  by  this  boozing  away  of 
money  that  was  really  his. 

Lizer's  youngest,  being  seven  or  eight 
months  old,  was  mostly  taking  care  of  itself, 
when  Billy  made  a  welcome  discovery  after 
a  hard  and  pinching  day.  The  night  was 
full  of  blinding  wet,  and  the  rain  beat  on  the 
window  as  on  a  drum.  Billy  sat  over  a  small 
fire  in  the  front  room  smoking  his  pipe,  while 
his  mother  folded  clothes  for  delivery.  He 
stamped  twice  on  the  hearth,  and  then,  draw- 
ing off  his  boot,  he  felt  inside  it.  It  was  a 
nail.  The  poker-head  made  a  good  anvil, 
and,  looking  about  for  a  hammer,  Billy  be- 
thought him  of  a  brick  from  the  mangle.  He 
rose,  and,  lifting  the  lid  of  the  weight-box, 
groped  about  among  the  clinkers  and  the 
other  ballast  till  he  came  upon  a  small  but 
rather  heavy  paper  parcel. 

"'Ere — wot's  this  ?"  he  said,  and  pulled  it 
out. 

His  mother,  whose  back  had  been  turned, 
hastened  across  the  room,  hand  to  breast  (it 
had  got  to  be  her  habit). 

"  What  is  it,  Billy  ?"  she  said.  "  Not  that ; 
there's  nothing  there.  I'll  get  anything  you 
want,  Billy." 

And  she  made  a  nervous  catch  at  the  screw 


41 

of  paper.  But  Billy  fended  her  off  and  tore 
the  package  open.  It  was  money,  arranged 
in  little  columns  of  farthings,  halfpence,  and 
threepenny  pieces,  with  a  few  sixpences,  a 
shilling  or  two,  and  a  single  half  sovereign. 

"Oh,"  said  Billy,  "this  is  the  game,  is  it? 
'idin'  money  in  the  mangle  !  Got  any 
more?"  And  he  hastily  turned  the  brick- 
bats. 

"No,  Billy,  don't  take  that— don't  !"  im- 
plored his  mother.  "  There'll  be  some  money 
for  them  things  when  they  go  'ome — 'ave 
that.  I'm  savin'  it,  Billy,  for  something  par- 
tic'ler  ;  s'elp  me  Gawd,  I  am,  Billy." 

"  Yus,"  replied  Billy,  raking  diligently 
among  the  clinkers,  "  savin'  it  for  a  good  ol' 
booze.  An'  now  you  won't  'ave  one.  Bleed- 
in'  nice  thing,  'idin'  money  away  from  your 
own  son !" 

"  It  ain't  for  that,  Billy,  s'elp  me,  it  ain't ; 
it's  case  anythink  'appens  to  me.  On'y  to  put 
me  away  decent,  Billy,  that's  all.  We  never 
know,  an'  you'll  be  glad  of  it  t'elp  bury  me 
if  I  should  go  any  time — " 

"  I'll  be  glad  of  it  now,"  answered  Billy, 
who  had  it  in  his  pocket ;  an'  I've  got  it. 
You  ain't  a  dyin'  sort,  you  ain't;  an'  if  you 
was,  the  parish  'ud  soon  tuck  jew  up.  P'raps 
you'll  be  straighter  about  money  after  this." 


42 

"  Let  me  'ave  some,  then — you  can't  want 
it  all.  Give  me  some,  an'  then  'avc  the 
money  for  the  things.  There's  ten  dozen  and 
seven,  and  you  can  take  'em  yerself  if  ye 
like." 

"  Wot,  in  this  'ere  rain  ?  Not  me  !  I  bet 
I'd  'ave  the  money  if  I  wanted  it  without  that. 
'Ere,  change  these  'ere  fardens  at  the  draper's 
wen  you  go  out ;  there's  two  bob's  worth  an' 
a  penn'orth  ;  I  don't  want  to  bust  my  pockets 
wi'  them." 

While  they  spoke  Lizer  had  come  in  from 
the  back  room.  But  she  said  nothing;  she 
rather  busied  herself  with  a  child  she  had  in 
her  arms.  When  Billy's  mother,  despondent 
and  tearful,  had  tramped  out  into  the  rain 
with  a  pile  of  clothes  in  an  oilcloth  wrapper, 
she  said,  sulkily,  without  looking  up: 

"  You  might  'a'  let  'er  kep'  that ;  you  git 
all  you  want." 

At  another  time  this  remonstrance  would 
have  provoked  active  hostilities  ;  but  now, 
with  the  money  about  him,  Billv  was  com- 
placently disposed. 

"  You  shutcher  'ead,"  he  said  ;  "  I  got  this, 
any'ow.  She  can  make  it  up  out  o'  my  rent 
if  she  likes." 

This  last  remark  was  a  joke,  and  he  chuck- 
led as  he  made   it.     For  Billy's  rent   was  a 


43 

simple  fiction,  devised,  on  the  suggestion  of 
a  smart  canvasser,  to  give  him  a  parliament- 
ary vote. 

That  night  Billy  and  Lizer  slept,  as  usual, 
in  the  bed  in  the  back  room,  where  the  two 
younger  children  also  were.  Billy's  mother 
made  a  bedstead  nightly  with  three  chairs 
and  an  old  trunk  in  the  front  room  by  the 
mangle,  and  the  eldest  child  lay  in  a  floor- 
bed  near  her.  Early  in  the  morning  Lizer 
awoke  at  a  sudden  outcry  of  the  little  creat- 
ure. He  clawed  at  the  handle  till  he  opened 
the  door,  and  came  staggering  and  tumbling 
into  the  room  with  screams  of  terror. 

"  Wring  'is  blasted  neck,"  his  father 
grunted,  sleepily.  "  Wot's  the  kid  'owlin' 
for  ?" 

"  I's  Taid  o'  g'anny — I's  'f'aid  o'  g'anny  !" 
was  all  the  child  could  say  ;  and  when  he  had 
said  it,  he  fell  to  screaming  once  more. 

Lizer  rose  and  went  to  the  next  room  ;  and 
straightway  came  a  scream  from  her,  also. 

"Oh,  oh,  Billy!  Billy!  Oh,  my  Gawd! 
Billy,  come  'ere  !" 

And  Billy,  fully  startled,  followed  in  Lizer's 
wake.  He  blundered  in,  rubbing  his  eyes, 
and  saw.  _, 

Stark  on  her  back  in  the  huddled  bed  of  old 
wrappers  and   shawls  lay    his   mother.     The 


44 

outline  of  her  poor  face — strained  in  an  up- 
ward stare  of  painful  surprise — stood  sharp 
and  meagre  against  the  black  of  the  grate 
beyond.  But  the  muddy  old  skin  was  white 
and  looked  cleaner  than  its  wont,  and  many 
of  the  wrinkles  were  gone. 

Billy  Chope,  half-way  across  the  floor, 
recoiled  from  the  corpse,  and  glared  at  it 
pallidly  from  the  doorway. 

"  Good  Gawd  !"  he  croaked  faintly,  "  is  she 
dead  ?" 

Seized  by  a  fit  of  shuddering  breaths,  Lizer 
sank  on  the  floor,  and,  with  her  head  across 
the  body,  presently  broke  into  a  storm  of 
hysterical  blubbering,  while  Billy,  white  and 
dazed,  dressed  hurriedly  and  got  out  of  the 
house. 

He  was  at  home  as  little  as  might  be  until 
the  coroner's  officer  carried  away  the  body 
two  days  later.  When  he  came  for  his  meals, 
he  sat  doubtful  and  querulous  in  the  matter 
of  the  front  room  door's  being  shut.  The 
dead  once  clear  away,  however,  he  resumed 
his  faculties  and  clearly  saw  that  here  was  a 
bad  change  for  the  worse.  There  was  the 
mangle,  but  who  was  to  work  it?  If  Lizer 
did,  there  would  be  no  more  charing  jobs — 
a  clear  loss  of  one-third  of  his  income.  And 
it  was  not  at  all  certain  that  the  people  who 


45 

had  given  their  mangling  to  his  mother  would 
give  it  to  Lizer.  Indeed,  it  was  pretty  sure 
that  many  would  not,  because  mangling  is  a 
thing  given  by  preference  to  widows,  and 
many  widows  of  the  neighborhood  were  per- 
petually competing  for  it.  Widows,  more- 
over, had  the  first  call  in  most  odd  jobs 
whereunto  Lizer  might  turn  her  hand  ;  an 
injustice  whereon  Billy  meditated  with  bit- 
terness. 

The  inquest  was  formal  and  unremarked, 
the  medical  officer  having  no  difficulty  in 
certifying  a  natural  death  from  heart  disease. 
The  bright  idea  of  a  collection  among  the 
jury,  which  Billy  communicated,  with  pitiful 
representations,  to  the  coroner's  officer,  was 
brutally  swept  aside  by  that  functionary, 
made  cunning  by  much  experience.  So  the 
inquest  brought  him  naught  save  disappoint- 
ment and  a  sense  of  injury.     .     . 

The  mangling  orders  fell  away  as  suddenly 
and  completely  as  he  had  feared;  they  were 
duly  absorbed  among  the  local  widows. 
Neglect  the  children  as  Lizer  might,  she 
could  no  longer  leave  them  as  she  had  done. 
Things,  then,  were  bad  with  Billy,  and  neither 
threats  nor  thumps  could  evoke  a  shilling 
now. 


46 

It  was  more  than  Billy  could  bear,  so 
that,  "  'Ere,"  he  said  one  night,  "  I've  'ad 
enough  o'  this.  You  go  and  get  some 
money  ;  go  on." 

"  Go  an'  git  it?"  replied  Lizer.  "  Oh,  yus. 
That's  easy,  ain't  it  ?  '  Go  an'  git  it,'  says 
you.     'Ovv  ?" 

"  Any'ow — I  don'  care.     Go  on." 

"  Wy,"  replied  Lizer,  looking  up  with  wide 
eyes,  "  d'ye  think  I  can  go  an'  pick  it  up  in 
the  street  ?" 

"  Course  you  can.  Plenty  others  does, 
don't  they?" 

"  Gawd,  Billy     .     .     .     wot  d'ye  mean  ?" 

"  Wot  I  say  ;  plenty  others  does  it.  Go 
on  —  you  ain't  so  bleed'n'  innocent  as  all 
that.  Go  an'  see  Sam  Cardew.  Go  on — 
'ook  it." 

Lizer,  who  had  been  kneeling  at  the  child's 
floor-bed,  rose  to  her  feet,  pale-faced  and 
bright  of  eye. 

"  Stow  kiddin',  Billy,"  she  said.  "  You 
don't  mean  that.  I'll  go  round  to  the  fact'ry 
in  the  mornin' ;  p'raps  they'll  take  me  on 
temp'ry." 

"  Damn  the  fact'ry." 

He  pushed  her  into  the  passage.  "  Go 
on — you  git  me  some  money,  if  ye  don't 
want  yer  bleed'n'  'ead  knocked  auf." 


47 

There  was  a  scuffle  in  the  dark  passage, 
with  certain  blows,  a  few  broken  words,  and 
a  sob.  Then  the  door  slammed,  and  Lizer 
Chope  was  in  the  windy  street. 


WITHOUT   VISIBLE   MEANS 

All  East  London  idled,  or  walked  in  a 
procession,  or  waylaid  and  bashed,  or  cried 
in  an  empty  kitchen  ;  for  it  was  the  autumn 
of  the  Great  Strikes.  One  army  of  men, 
having  been  prepared,  was  ordered  to  strike 
— and  struck.  Other  smaller  armies  of  men, 
with  no  preparation,  were  ordered  to  strike 
to  express  sympathy — and  struck.  Other 
armies  still  were  ordered  to  strike  because  it 
was  the  fashion — and  struck.  Then  many 
hands  were  discharged  because  the  strikes  in 
other  trades  left  them  no  work.  Many 
others  came  from  other  parts  in  regiments  to 
work,  but  remained  to  loaf  in  gangs  ;  taught 
by  the  example  of  earlier  regiments,  which, 
the  situation  being  explained  (an  expression 
devised  to  include  mobbings  and  kickings 
and  flingings  into  docks),  had  returned 
whence  they  came.  So  that  East  London 
was  very  noisy  and  largely  hungry;  and  the 
rest  of  the    world   looked   on   with   intense 

[48] 


49 

interest,  making-  earnest  suggestions,  and 
comprehending"  nothing.  Lots  of  strikers, 
having1  no  strike  pay  and  finding  little 
nourishment  in  processions,  started  off  to 
walk  to  Manchester,  Birmingham,  Liverpool 
or  Newcastle,  where  work  might  be  got. 
Along  the  Great  North  Road  such  men 
might  be  seen  in  silent  companies  of  a  dozen 
or  twenty,  now  and  again  singly  or  in  couples. 
At  the  tail  of  one  such  gang,  which  gathered 
in  the  Burdett  Road  and  found  its  way  into 
the  Enfield  Road  by  way  of  Victoria  Park, 
Clapton,  and  Stamford  Hill,  walked  a  little 
group  of  three  :  a  voluble  young  man  of 
thirty,  a  stolid  workman  rather  older,  and 
a  pale,  anxious  little  fellow,  with  a  nasty 
spasmic  cough  and  a  canvas  bag  of  tools. 

The  little  crowd  straggled  over  the  foot- 
path and  the  road,  few  of  its  members  speak- 
ing, most  of  them  keeping  to  their  places 
and  themselves.  As  yet  there  was  nothing 
of  the  tramp  in  the  aspect  of  these  mechanics. 
With  their  washed  faces  and  well-mended 
clothes  they  might  have  been  taken  for  a 
jury  coming  from  a  local  inquest.  As  the 
streets  got  broken  and  detached,  with 
patches  of  field  between,  they  began  to  look 
about  them.  One  young  fellow  in  front 
(with    no    family    to  think   of),  who  looked 


5° 

upon  the  enterprise  as  an  amusing  sort  of 
tour,  and  had  even  brought  an  accordion, 
began  to  rebel  against  the  general  depres- 
sion, and  attempted  a  joke  about  going  to  the 
Alexandra  Palace.  But  in  the  rear,  the  little 
man  with  the  canvas  bag,  putting  his  hand 
abstractedly  into  his  pocket,  suddenly  stared 
and  stopped.  He  drew  out  the  hand,  and 
saw  in  it  three  shillings. 

"  S'elp  me,"  he  said,  "  the  missis  is  done 
that — shoved  it  in  unbeknown  when  I  come 
away!  An' she's  only  got  a  bob  for  'erself 
an'  the  kids."  He  broke  into  a  sweat  of  un- 
easiness. "  I'll  'ave  to  send  it  back  at  the 
next  post-office,  that's  all." 

"  Send  it  back?  not  you  !"  Thus  with  deep 
scorn  the  voluble  young  man  at  his  side. 
She  11  be  all  right,  you  lay  your  life.  A 
woman  alius  knows  'ow  to  look  after  'erself. 
You'll  bleed'n'  soon  want  it,  an'  bad.  You  do 
as  I  tell  you,  Joey  ;  stick  to  it.  That's  right, 
Dave,  ain't  it?" 

"  Matter  o'  fancy,"  replied  the  stolid  man. 
"  My  missis  cleared  my  pockets  out  'fore 
I  got  away.  Shouldn't  wonder  at  bein* 
sent  after  for  leavin'  'er  chargeable  if  I 
don't  soon  send  some  more.  Women's  dif- 
ferent." 

The  march  continued  and   grew    dustier. 


5i 


The  cheerful  pilgrim  in  front  produced  his 
accordion.  At  Palmer's  Green  four  went 
straight  ahead  to  try  for  work  at  the  Enfield 
Arms  Factory.  The  others,  knowing  the 
thing  hopeless,  turned  off  to  the  left  for 
Potter's  Bar. 

After  a  long  silence,  "  Which'll  be  nearest, 
Dave,"  asked  little  Joey  Clayton,  "  Newcastle 
or  Middlesborough  ?" 

"  Middlesborough,"  said  Dave;  "  I  done  it, 
afore." 

"  Trampin'  ain't  so  rough  on  a  man,  is  it, 
after  all?"  asked  Joey,  wistfully.  "  You  done 
all  right,  didn't  you?" 

"  Got  through.  All  depends,  though  it's 
rough  enough.  Matter  o'  luck.  I  'ad  the 
bad  weather." 

"  If  I  don't  get  a  good  easy  job  where  we're 
goin',"  remarked  the  voluble  young  man, 
"  I'll  'ave  a  strike  there  too." 

"'Ave  a  strike  there?"  exclaimed  Joey. 
<"Ow?     Who'd  call 'em  out?" 

"Wy,/ would.  I  think  I'm  equal  to  doin' 
it,  ain't  I  ?  An'  when  workin'  men  stand  idle 
an'  'ungry  in  the  midst  o'  the  wealth  and  the 
lukshry  an'  the  igstravagance  they've  pro- 
duced with  the  sweat  of  their  brow,  why,  then, 
feller-workmen,  it's  time  to  act ;    it's  time  to 


52 

bring  the  nigger-drivin',  bloated  capitalists 
to  their  knees." 

"'Ear,  'ear,"  applauded  Joey  Clayton; 
tamely,  perhaps,  for  the  words  were  not 
new.  "  Good  on  yer,  Newman!"  Newman 
had  a  habit  of  practising  this  sort  of  thing  in 
snatches  whenever  he  saw  the  chance.  He 
had  learnt  the  trick  in  a  debating  society, 
and  Joey  Clayton  was  always  an  applausive 
audience.  There  was  a  pause,  the  accordion 
started  another  tune,  and  Newman  tried  a 
different  passage  of  his  harangue. 

"  In  the  shop  they  call  me  Skulky  Newman. 
Why  ?  "  Cos  I  skulk  o'  course"  ("  'Ear,  'ear," 
dreamily — from  Dave  this  time).  "  I  ain't 
ashamed  of  it,  my  friends.  I'm  a  miker  out 
an' out,  an'  I  'ope  I  shall  always  remain  a 
miker.  The  less  a  worker  does  the  more  'as 
to  be  imployed,  don't  they?  An'  the  more 
the  toilers  wrings  out  o'  the  capitalists,  don't 
they?  Very  well  then,  I  mike,  an'  I  do  it  as 
a  sacred  dooty." 

"  You'll  'ave  all  the  mikin'  you  want  for  a 
week  or  two,"  said  Dave  Burge,  placidly. 
"  Stow  it." 

At  Potter's  Bar  the  party  halted  and  sat 
under  a  hedge  to  eat  hunks  of  bread  and 
cheese  (or  hunks  of  bread  and  nothing  else), 
and  to  drink  cold  tea  out  of  cans.  Skulky  New- 


53 

man,  who  had  brought  nothing,  stood  in  with 
his  two  friends.  As  they  started  anew  and 
turned  into  the  Great  North  Road  he  said, 
stretching  himself  and  looking  slyly  at  Joey 
Clayton,  "  If  I'd  got  a  bob  or  two  I'd  stand 
you  two  blokes  a  pint  apiece." 

Joey  looked  troubled.  "  Well,  as  you  ain't, 
I  suppose  I  ought  to,"  he  said  uneasily,  turn- 
ing toward  the  little  inn  hard  by.  "  Dave," 
he  cried  to  Burge,  who  was  walking  on, 
"  won't  you  'ave  a  drink?"  And,  "Well,  if 
you  are  goin'  to  do  the  toff,  I  ain't  proud," 
was  the  slow  reply. 

Afterward,  Joey  was  inclined  to  stop  at  the 
post-office  to  send  away  at  least  two  shillings. 
But  Newman  wouldn't.  He  enlarged  on 
the  improvidence  of  putting  out  of  reach  that 
which  might  be  required  on  an  emergency; 
he  repeated  his  axiom  as  to  a  woman's  knack 
of  keeping  alive  in  spite  of  all  things;  and 
Joey  determined  not  to  send — for  a  day  or 
so  at  any  rate. 

The  road  got  looser  and  dustier;  the 
symptoms  of  the  tramp  came  out  stronger 
and  stronger  on  the  gang.  The  accordion 
struck  up  from  time  to  time,  but  ceased 
toward  the  end  of  the  afternoon.  The  player 
wearied,  and  some  of  the  older  men,  soon 
tired  of   walking,  were  worried  by  the  noise. 


54 

Joey  Clayton,  whose  cough  was  aggravated 
by  the  dust,  was  especially  tortured,  after 
every  fit,  to  hear  the  thing  drawling  and 
whooping  the  tune  it  had  drawled  and 
whooped  a  dozen  times  before  ;  but  he  said 
nothing,  scarce  knowing  what  annoyed  him. 

At  Hatfield  Station  two  of  the  foremost 
picked  up  a  few  coppers  by  helping  with  a 
heavy  trap-load  of  luggage.  Up  Digswell 
Hill  the  party  tailed  out  lengthily,  and 
Newman,  who  had  been  letting  off  a  set 
speech,  was  fain  to  save  his  wind.  The  night 
came,  clear  to  see  and  sweet  to  smell.  Be- 
tween Welwyn  and  Codicote  the  company 
broke  up  to  roost  in  such  barns  as  they  might 
possess,  all  but  the  master  of  the  accordion, 
who  had  stayed  at  a  little  public-house  at 
Welwyn,  with  the  notion  of  earning  a  pot  of 
beer  and  a  stable-corner  (or  better)  by  a  tune 
in  the  tap-room.  Dave  Burge  lighted  on  a 
lone  shed  of  thatched  hurdles  with  loose  hay 
in  it,  and  Newman  straightway  curled  in  the 
snuggest  corner  on  most  of  the  hay.  Dave 
Burge  pulled  some  from  under  him,  and, 
having  helped  Joey  Clayton  to  build  a  nest 
in  the  best  place  left,  was  soon  snoring.  But 
Joey  lay  awake  all  night,  and  sat  up  and 
coughed  and  turned  restlessly,  being  unused 
to   the   circumstances   and   apprehensive   of 


55 

those  months  in  jail,  which  (it  is  well  known) 
are  rancorously  dealt  forth  among  all  them 
that  sleep  in  barns. 

Luck  provided  a  breakfast  next  morning 
at  Codicote  ;  for  three  bicyclists,  going  north, 
stood  cold  beef  and  bread  round  at  The 
Anchor.  The  man  with  the  accordion  caught 
up.  He  had  made  his  lodging  and  break- 
fast and  eightpence  ;  this  had  determined 
him  to  stay  at  Hitchin,  and  work  it  for,  at 
least,  a  day,  and  then  to  diverge  into  the 
towns  and  let  the  rest  go  their  way.  So 
beyond  Hitchin  there  was  no  music. 

Joey  Clayton  soon  fell  slow.  Newman  had 
his  idea,  and  the  three  were  left  behind,  and 
Joey  staggered  after  his  mates  with  difficulty. 
He  lacked  sleep,  and  he  lacked  stamina. 
Dave  Burge  took  the  canvas  bag,  and  there 
were  many  rests,  when  Newman,  expressing 
a  resolve  to  stick  by  his  fellow-man  through 
thick  and  thin,  hinted  at  drinks.  Dave  Burge 
made  two-pence  at  Henlow  level  crossing  by 
holding  an  unsteady  horse  while  a  train 
passed.  Joey  saw  little  of  the  rest  of  the 
day  ;  the  road  was  yellow  and  dazzling,  his 
cough  tore  him,  and  things  were  red  some- 
times and  sometimes  blue.  He  walked 
without  knowing  it,  now  helped,  now  lurch- 
ing on  alone.     The  others  of  the  party' were 


56 

far  ahead  and  forgotten.  There  was  talk  of 
a  windmill  ahead,  where  there  would  be 
rest;  and  the  three  men  camped  in  an  old 
boathouse  by  the  river  just  outside  Biggle- 
swade. Joey,  sleeping  as  he  tottered,  fell  in 
a  heap  and  lay  without  moving  from  sunset 
to  broad  morning. 

When  he  woke  Dave  Burge  was  sitting  at 
the  door,  but  Newman  was  gone.  Also,  there 
was  no  sign  of  the  canvas  bag. 

"  No  use  lookin',''  said  Dave  ;  "  'e's  done  it." 

"  Eh  ?" 

"  Skulky's  'opped  the  twig  an'  sneaked  your 
tools.     Gawd  knows  where    'e  is  bynow." 

"No — "the  little  man  gasped,  sitting  up 
in  a  pale  sweat.  .  .  "  Not  sneaked  'em 
.  .  .  is  'e.  .  .  S'elp  me,  there's  a  set  o' 
callipers  worth  fifteen  bob  in  that  bag 
.     .     .      e'  ain't  gawn  .     .     .  ?" 

Dave  Burge  nodded  inexorably. 

"  Best  feel  in  your  pockets,"  he  said,  "  p'raps 
'e's  bin  there." 

He  had.  The  little  man  broke  down.  "  I 
was  a-goin'  to  send  'ome  that  two  bob — s'elp 
me,  I  was.  .  .  An'  what  can  I  do  without 
my  tools?  If  I'd  got  no  job  I  could  'a 
pawned  'em — an'  then  I'd  'a  sent  'ome  the 
money — s'elp  me  I  would.  .  .  Oh,  it's 
crool!" 


57 


The  walking,  with  the  long  sleep  after  it, 
had  left  him  sore  and  stiff,  and  Dave  had 
work  to  put  him  on  the  road  again.  He  had 
forgotten  yesterday  afternoon,  and  asked,  at 
first,  for  the  others.  They  tramped  in  silence 
for  a  few  miles;  when  Joey  suddenly  flung 
himself  upon  a  tussock  by  the  wayside. 

"Why  won't  nobody  let  me  live?"  he 
sniveled.  "  I'm  a  'armless  bloke  enough.  I 
worked  at  Ritterson's,  man  and  boy,  very 
nigh  twenty  year.  When  they  come  an' 
ordered  us  out,  I  come  out  with  the  others, 
peaceful  enough  ;  I  didn't  want  to  chuck  it 
up,  Gawd  knows,  but  I  come  out  promp' 
when  they  told  me.  And  when  I  found 
another  job  on  the  Island,  four  big  blokes  set 
about  me  an'  'arf  killed  me.  /  didn't  know 
the  place  was  blocked.  And  when  two  o' 
the  blokes  was  took  up,  they  said  I'd  get 
strike-pay  again  if  I  didn't  identify  'em  ;  so  I 
didn't.  But  they  never  give  me  no  strike- 
pay — they  laughed  an'  chucked  me  out.  An' 
now  I'm  a-starvin'  on  the  'igh  road.  An' 
Skulky  .  .  .  blimy  .  .  .  Vs  done  me 
too!" 

There  were  days  wherein  Joey  learned  to 
eat  a  swede  pulled  from  behind  a  wagon,  and 
to  feel  thankful  for  an   early  turnip ;  might 


58 

have  learned,  too,  just  what  tramping- means 
in  many  ways  to  a  man  unskilled  both  in  beg- 
ging and  in  theft,  but  was  never  equal  to  it. 
He  coughed — and  worse  ;  holding  to  posts 
and  gates,  and  often  spitting  blood.  He  had 
little  to  say,  but  trudged  mechanically,  tak- 
ing note  of  nothing. 

Once,  as  though  aroused  from  a  reverie, 
he  asked,  "  Wasn't  there  some  others?" 

"  Others?"  said  Dave,  for  a  moment  taken 
aback.  "  Oh,  yes,  there  was  some  others. 
They're  gone  on  ahead,  y'know." 

Joey  tramped  for  half  a  mile  in  silence. 
Then  he  said,  "  Expect  they're  'avin'  a  rough 
time  too." 

"  Ah — very  like,"  said  Dave. 

For  a  space  Joey  was  silent,  save  for  the 
cough.  Then  he  went  on  :  "  Comes  o*  not 
bringing  'cordions  with  'em.  Everyone 
ought  to  take  a  'cordion  what  goes  tram  pin.' 
I  knew  a  man  once  that  went  trampin',  an'  'e 
took  a'cordion.  He  done  all  right.  It  ain't  so 
rough  for  them  as  plays  on  the  'cordion." 
And  Dave  Burge  rubbed  his  cap  about  his 
head  and  stared  ;  but  answered  nothing. 

It  was  a  bad  day.  Crusts  were  begged  at 
cottages.  Every  rise  and  every  turn,  the 
eternal  yellow  road  lay  stretch  on  stretch  be- 
fore them,  flouting  their  unrest.     Joey,  now 


59 

unimpressionable,  endured  more  placidly 
than  even  Dave  Burge.  Late  in  the  after- 
noon, "  No,"  he  said,  "  it  ain't  so  rough  for 
them  as  plays  the  'cordion.  They  'as  the 
best  of  it.  .  .  S'elp  me,"  he  added,  sud- 
denly, "  we're  all  'cordions  !"  He  sniggered, 
thoughtully,  and  then  burst  into  a  cough  that 
left  him  panting.  "  We're  nothin'  but  a 
bloomin'  lot  o'  'cordions  ourselves,"  he  went 
on,  having  got  his  breath,  "  an'  they  play  any 
toon  they  like  on  us  ;  an'  that's  'ow  they 
make  their  livin'.  S'elp  me,  Dave,  we're  all 
'cordions."     And  he  laughed. 

"  Um — yus,"  the  other  man  grunted.  And 
he  looked  curiously  at  his  mate;  for  he  had 
never  heard  that  sort  of  laugh  before. 

But  Joey  fondled  the  conceit,  and  returned 
to  it  from  time  to  time;  now  aloud,  now  to 
himself.  "  All  'cordions;  playin'  any  toon  as 
is  ordered,  blimy.  .  .  Are  we 'cordions? 
/don't  b'lieve  we're  as  much  as  that.  .  . 
no,  s'elp  me.  We're  on'y  the  footlin'  little 
keys  ;  shoved  about  to  soot  the  toon.  .  . 
Little  tin  keys,  blimy  .  .  .  footlin'  little 
keys.  .  .  I've  bin  played  on  plenty,  / 
*ave." 

Dave  Burge  listened  with  alarm,  and  tried 
to  talk  of  other  things.  But  Joey  rarely 
heard    him.     "  I've   bin  played    on  plenty,  / 


6o 


'ave,"  he  persisted.     "  I  was  played  on  once 
by  a  pal  ;  an'  my  spring  broke." 

At  nightfall  there  was  more  bad  luck. 
They  were  driven  from  a  likely  barn  by  a 
leather-gaitered  man  with  a  dog,  and  for 
some  distance  no  dormitory  could  be  found. 
Then  it  was  a  cut  haystack,  with  a  nest  near 
the  top  and  steps  to  reach  it. 

In  the  night  Burge  was  wakened  by  a 
clammy  hand  upon  his  face.  There  was  a 
thick  mist. 

"  It's  you,  Dave,  ain't  it  ?"  Clayton 
was  saying.  "  Good  Gawd,  I  thought  I'd 
lawst  you.  What's  all  this  'ere — not  the 
water,  is  it? — not  the  dock?  I'm  soppin' 
wet." 

Burge  himself  was  wet  to  the  skin.  He 
made  Joey  lie  down,  and  told  him  to  sleep, 
but  a  coughing  fit  prevented  that.  "  It  was 
them  'cordions  woke  me,"  he  explained  when 
it  was  over. 

So  the  night  put  on  the  shuddering  grey 
of  the  fore-dawn.  And  the  two  tramps  left 
their  perch,  and  betook  them,  shivering  and 
stamping,  to  the  road. 

That  morning  Joey  had  short  fits  of  dizzi- 
ness and  faintness.  "  It's  my  spring  broke," 
he  would  say  after  such  an  attack.  "  Bloom- 
in'  little  tin  key  put  out  o'  toon."     And  once 


6i 


he  added,  "  I'm  up  to  one  toon,  though,  now ; 
this  'ere  bloomin'  Dead  March." 

Just  at  the  outskirts  of  a  town,  where  he 
stopped  to  cough  over  a  gate,  a  stout  old 
lady,  walking  out  with  a  shaggy  little  dog, 
gave  him  a  shilling.  Dave  Burge  picked  it 
up  as  it  dropped  from  his  incapable  hand,  and 
"  Joey,  'ere's  a  bob,"  he  said  ;  "  a  lad\r  give  it 
you.     You  come  an'  git  a  drop  o'  beer." 

They  carried  a  twopenny  loaf  into  the  tap- 
room of  a  small  tavern,  and  Dave  had  mild 
ale  himself,  but  saw  that  Joey  was  served 
with  stout  with  a  penn'orth  of  gin  in  it. 
Soon  the  gin  and  stout  reached  Joey's  head, 
and  he  drew  it  to  the  table.  And  he  slept, 
leaving  the  rest  of  the  shilling  where  it  lay. 

Dave  arose,  and  stuffed  the  last  of  the  two- 
penny loaf  into  his  pocket.  He  took  a  piece 
of  chalk  from  the  bagatelle  board  in  the  cor. 
ner,  and  wrote  this  on  the  table  : — "  dr.  sir. 
for  god  sake  take  him  to  the  work  House." 

Then  he  gathered  up  the  coppers  where 
they  lay,  and  stepped  quietly  into  the  street. 


TO   BOW   BRIDGE 

The  eleven-five  tram-car  from  Stratford 
started  for  Bow  a  trifle  before  its  time.  The 
conductor  knew  what  he  might  escape  by 
stealing  a  march  on  the  closing  public-houses; 
as  also  what  was  in  store  for  all  the  con- 
ductors in  his  wake,  till  there  were  no  more 
revelers  left  to  swarm  the  cars.  For  it  was 
Saturday  night,  and  many  a  week's  wages 
were  a-knocking  down;  and  the  publicans 
this  side  of  Bow  Bridge  shut  their  door  at 
eleven  under  Act  of  Parliament,  whereas 
beyond  the  Bridge,  which  is  the  county  of 
London,  the  law  gives  them  another  hour, 
and  a  man  may  drink  many  pots  therein. 
And  for  this,  at  eleven  every  Saturday,  there 
is  a  great  rush  westward,  a  vast  migration 
over  Lea,  from  all  the  length  of  High  Street. 
From  the  nearer  parts  they  walk,  or  do  their 
best  to  walk  ;  but  from  further  Stratford,  by 
the  Town  Hall,  the  Church,  and  the  Martyrs' 
Memorial,  they   crowd    the    cars.     For  one 

[62] 


63 

thing,  it  is  a  long  half-mile,  and  the  week's 
work  is  over.  Also,  the  car  being  swamped, 
it  is  odds  that  a  man  shall  save  his  fare,  since 
no  conductor  may  fight  his  way  a  quarter 
through  his  passengers  before  Bow  Bridge, 
where  the  vehicle  is  emptied  at  a  rush.  And 
that  means  yet  another  half-pint. 

So  the  eleven-five  car  started  sooner  than 
it  might  have  done.  As  it  was  spattering 
with  rain,  I  boarded  it,  sharing  the  con- 
ductor's forlorn  hope,  but  taking  care  to  sit 
at  the  extreme  fore-end  inside.  In  the  broad 
street  the  market  clamored  and  flared,  its 
lights  and  shadows  flickering  and  fading 
about  the  long  churchyard  and  the  steeple  in 
the  midst  thereof;  and  toward  the  distant 
lights,  the  shining  road  sparkled  in  long 
reaches,  like  a  blackguard  river. 

A  gap  fell  here  and  there  among  the  lights 
where  a  publican  put  his  gas  out ;  and  at 
these  points  the  crowds  thickened.  A  quiet 
mechanic  came  in,  and  sat  near  a  decent 
woman  with  children,  a  bundle,  a  basket,  and 
a  cabbage.  Thirty  yards  on  the  car  rumbled 
and  suddenly  its  hinder  end  was  taken  in  a 
mass  of  people — howling,  struggling  and 
blaspheming — who  stormed  and  wrangled  in 
at  the  door  and  up  the  stairs.  There  were 
lads  and  men  whooping    and  flushed,  there 


64 

were  girls  and  women  screaming-  choruses  ; 
and  in  a  moment  the  seats  were  packed, 
knees  were  taken,  and  there  was  not  an  inch 
of  standing  room.  The  conductor  cried 
"All  full!"  and  tugged  at  his  bell-strap, 
whereunto  many  were  hanging  by  the  hand  ; 
but  he  was  swept  from  his  feet,  and  made  to 
push  hard  for  his  own  place.  And  there  was 
no  more  foothold  on  the  back  platform  nor 
the  front,  nor  any  vacant  step  upon  the  stair- 
way ;  and  the  roof  was  thronged;  and  the 
rest  of  the  crowd  was  fain  to  waylay  the  next 
car. 

This  one  moved  off  slowly,  with  shrieks 
and  howls  that  were  racking  to  the  wits. 
From  divers  quarters  of  the  roof  came  a 
bumping  thunder  as  of  cellar-flapping  clogs. 
Profanity  was  sluiced  down,  as  it  were  by 
pailfuls,  from  above,  and  was  swilled  back 
as  it  were  in  pailfuls  from  below.  Blowses  in 
feathered  bonnets  bawled  hilarious  obscenity 
at  the  jiggers.  A  little  maid  with  a  market- 
basket,  hustled  and  jostled  and  elbowed  at 
the  far  end,  listened  eagerly,  and  laughed 
when  she  could  understand  ;  and  the  quiet 
mechanic,  whose  knees  had  been  invaded  by 
an  unsteady  young  woman  in  a  crushed  hat, 
tried  to  look  pleased.  My  own  knees  were 
saved  from  capture    by  the   near   neighbor- 


65 

hood  of  an  enormous  female,  seated  partly  on 
the  seat  and  partly  on  myself,  snorting  and 
gulping  with  sleep,  her  head  upon  the  next 
man's  shoulder.  (To  offer  your  seat  to  a 
standing  woman  would,  as  beseems  a  foreign 
antic,  have  been  visited  by  the  ribaldry  of 
the  whole  crowd.)  In  the  midst  of  the  riot 
the  decent  woman  sat  silent  and  indifferent, 
her  children  on  and  about  her  knees.  Further 
along,  two  women  ate  fish  with  their  fingers 
and  discoursed  personalities  in  voices  which 
ran  strident  through  the  uproar,  as  the  odor 
of  their  snack  asserted  itself  in  the  general 
fetor.  And  opposite  the  decent  woman  there 
sat  a  bonnetless  drab,  who  said  nothing,  but 
looked  at  the  decent  woman's  children  as  a 
shoeless  brat  looks  at  the  dolls  in  a  toyshop 
window. 

"  So  I  ses  to  'er,  I  ses" — this  from  the 
snacksters — "  I'm  a  respectable  married 
woman,  I  ses.  More'n  you  can  say,  you 
barefaced  hussey,  I  ses — "  Then  a  shower  of 
curses,  a  shout  and  a  roar  of  laughter  ;  and 
the  conductor,  making  slow  and  laborious 
progress  with  the  fares  nearest  him,  turned 
his  head.  A  man  had  jumped  upon  the  foot- 
board and  a  passenger's  toes.  A  scuffie  and 
a  fight,  and  both  had  rolled  off  into  the  mire, 
and  got  left  behind.     "  Ain't  they  fond  o' one 


66 


another?"  cried  a  girl.  "  They're  a-goin'  for 
a  walk  together  ;"  and  there  was  a  guffaw. 
"  The  silly  bleeders  '11  be  too  late  for  the  pubs," 
said  a  male  voice,  and  there  was  another,  for 
the  general  understanding  was  touched. 

Then — an  effect  of  sympathy,  perhaps — a 
scuffle  broke  out  on  the  roof.  But  this  dis- 
turbed not  the  insides.  The  conductor  went 
on  his  plaguy  task  ;  to  save  time,  he  passed 
over  the  one  or  two  that,  asked  now  or  not, 
seemed  likely  to  pay  at  the  journey's  end. 
The  snacking  women  resumed  their  talk,  the 
choristers  their  singing  ;  the  rumble  of  the 
wheels  was  lost  in  a  babel  of  vacant  ribaldry  ; 
the  enormous  woman  choked  and  gasped  and 
snuggled  lower  down  upon  her  neighbor's 
shoulder;  and  the  shabby  strumpet  looked  at 
the  children. 

A  man  by  the  door  vomited  his  liquor  ; 
whereat  was  more  hilarity,  and  his  neighbors, 
with  many  yaups,  shoved  further  up  the  mid- 
dle. But  one  of  the  little  ones,  standing 
before  her  mother,  was  pushed  almost  to  fall- 
ing ;  and  the  harlot,  seeing  her  chance, 
snatched  the  child  upon  her  knee.  The  child 
looked  up,  something  in  wonder,  and  smiled  ; 
and  the  woman  leered  as  honestly  as  she 
might,  saying  a  hoarse  word  or  two. 

Presently    the    conflict    overhead,  waxing 


67 

and  waning  to  an  accompaniment  of  angry 
shouts,  afforded  another  brief  diversion  to 
those  within,  and  something  persuaded  the 
standing  passengers  to  shove  toward  the 
door.  The  child  had  fallen  asleep  in  the 
street-walker's  arms.  "  Jinny  !"  cried  the 
mother,  reaching  forth  and  shaking  her. 
"Jinny!  wake  up  now — you  mustn't  go  to 
sleep."  And  she  pulled  the  little  thing  from 
her  perch  to  where  she  had  been  standing. 

The  bonnetless  creature  bent  forward,  and, 
in  her  curious  voice  (like  that  of  one  sick 
with  shouting),  "  She  can  set  on  my  knee, 
m'm,  if  she  likes,"  she  said  ;  "  she's  tired." 

The  mother  busied  herself  with  a  jerky 
adjustment  of  the  child's  hat  and  shawl. 
"  She  mustn't  go  to  sleep,"  was  all  she  said, 
sharply,  and  without  looking  up. 

The  hoarse  woman  bent  further  forward, 
with  a  propitiatory  grin.     "  'Ow  old  is  she  ? 

.     .     .     I'd  like  to — give  'er  a  penny." 

The  mother  answered  nothing;  but  drew 
the  child  close  by  the  side  of  her  knee,  where 
a  younger  one  was  sitting,  and  looked  steadily 
through  the  fore  windows. 

The  hoarse  woman  sat  back,  unquestioning 
and  unresentful,  and  turned  her  eyes  upon 
them  that  were  crowding  over  the  conductor ; 
for  the   car    was   rising   over   Bow    Bridge. 


68 


Front  and  back  they  surged  down  from  the 
roof,  and  the  insides  made  for  the  door  as 
one  man.  The  big  woman's  neighbor  rose, 
and  let  her  fall  over  on  the  seat,  whence,  awak- 
ing with  a  loud  grunt  and  an  incoherent  curse, 
she  rolled  after  the  rest.  The  conductor, 
clamant  and  bedeviled,  was  caught  between 
the  two  pellmells  and,  demanding  fares  and 
gripping  his  satchel,  was  carried  over  the 
footboard  in  the  rush.  The  stramash  over- 
head came  tangled  and  swearing  down  the 
stairs,  gaining  volume  and  force  in  random 
punches  as  it  came  ;  and  the  crowd  on  the 
pavement  streamed  vocally  toward  a  bright- 
ness at  the  bridge  foot — the  lights  of  the 
Bombay  Grab. 

The  woman   with    the  children    wailed   till 

the  footboard   was  clear,  and  then,  carrying 

:  child   and  leading   another  (her   market- 

3    attached    about    her    by    indeterminate 

is),  she  set  the  two   youngsters  on    the 

pavement,  leaving  the  third  on   the  step   of 

the    car.      The    harlot,    lingering,  lifted    the 

child  again — lifted   her  rather  high — and  set 

her  on  the  path   with  the  others.     Then  she 

walked  away  toward   the  Bombay  Grab.     A 

man  in  a  blue  serge  suit  was  footing  it  down 

the  turning  between  the  public-house  and  the 

bridsre  with  drunken  swiftness  and  an  inter- 


69 

mittent  stagger;    and  tightening  her  shawl, 
she  went  in  chase. 

The  quiet  mechanic  stood  and  stretched 
himself,  and  took  a  corner  seat  near  the  door; 
and  the  tram-car,  quiet  and  vacant,  bumped 
on  westward. 


THAT  BRUTE  SIMMONS 

Summons's  infamous  behavior  toward  his 
wife  is  still  matter  for  profound  wonderment 
among  the  neighbors.  The  other  women  had 
all  along  regarded  him  as  a  model  husband, 
and  certainly  Mrs.  Simmons  was  a  most  con- 
scientious wife.  She  toiled  and  slaved  for 
that  man,  as  any  woman  in  the  whole  street 
would  have  maintained,  far  more  than  any 
husband  had  a  right  to  expect.  And  now 
this  was  what  she  got  for  it.  Perhaps  he 
had  suddenly  gone  mad. 

Before  she  married  Simmons,  Mrs.  Sim- 
mons had  been  the  widowed  Mrs.  Ford. 
Ford  had  got  a  berth  as  donkeyman  on  a 
tramp  steamer,  and  that  steamer  had  gone 
clown  with  all  hands  off  the  Cape  ;  a  judg- 
ment, the  widow  woman  feared,  for  long 
years  of  contumacy  which  had  culminated 
in  the  wickedness  of  taking  to  the  sea,  and 
taking  to  it  as  a  donkeyman — an  immeasur- 

[7o] 


able  fall  for  a  capable  engine-fitter.  Twelve 
years  as  Mrs.  Ford  had  left  her  still  childless, 
and  childless  she  remained  as  Mrs.  Simmons. 

As  for  Simmons,  he,  it  was  held,  was  for- 
tunate in  that  capable  wife.  He  was  a  mod- 
erately good  carpenter  and  joiner,  but  no 
man  of  the  world,  and  he  wanted  one.  No- 
body could  tell  what  might  not  have  happened 
to  Tommy  Simmons  if  there  had  been  no  Mrs. 
Simmons  to  take  care  of  him.  He  was  a 
meek  and  quiet  man,  with  a  boyish  face  and 
sparse,  limp  whiskers.  He  had  no  vices 
(even  his  pipe  departed  him  after  his  mar- 
riage), and  Mrs.  Simmons  had  engrafted  on 
him  divers  exotic  virtues.  He  went  solemnly 
to  chapel  every  Sunday,  under  a  tall  hat, 
and  put  a  penny — one  returned  to  him  for 
the  purpose  out  of  his  week's  wages — in  the 
plate.  Then,  Mrs.  Simmons  overseeing,  he 
took  off  his  best  clothes  and  brushed  them 
with  solicitude  and  pains.  On  Saturday 
afternoons  he  cleaned  the  knives,  the  forks, 
the  boots,  the  kettles  and  the  windows,  pa- 
tiently and  conscientiously.  On  Tuesday 
evenings  he  took  the  clothes  to  the  mangling. 
And  on  Saturday  nights  he  attended  Mrs. 
Simmons  in  her  marketing,  to  carry  the  par- 
cels. 

Mrs.  Simmons's  own  virtues  were  native 


7* 

and  numerous.  She  was  a  wonderful  man- 
ager. Every  penny  of  Tommy's  thirty-six  or 
thirty-eight  shillings  a  week  was  bestowed  to 
the  greatest  advantage,  and  Tommy  never 
ventured  to  guess  how  much  of  it  she  saved. 
Her  cleanliness  in  housewifery  was  distract- 
ing to  behold.  She  met  Simmons  at  the 
front  door  whenever  he  came  home,  and  then 
and  there  he  changed  his  boots  for  slippers, 
balancing  himself  painfully  on  alternate  feet 
on  the  cold  flags.  This  was  because  she 
scrubbed  the  passage  and  doorstep  turn 
about  with  the  wife  of  the  downstairs  family, 
and  because  the  stair-carpet  was  her  own. 
She  vigilantly  supervised  her  husband  all 
through  the  process  of  "cleaning  himself" 
after  work,  so  as  to  come  between  her  walls 
and  the  possibility  of  random  splashes  ;  and 
if,  in  spite  of  her  diligence  a  spot  remained 
to  tell  the  tale,  she  was  at  pains  to  impress 
the  fact  on  Simmons's  memory,  and  to  set 
forth  at  length  all  the  circumstances  of  his 
ungrateful  selfishness.  In  the  beginning  she 
had  always  escorted  him  to  the  ready-made 
clothes  shop,  and  had  selected  and  paid  for 
his  clothes  ;  for  the  reason  that  men  are  such 
perfect  fools,  and  shopkeepers  do  as  they 
like  with  them.  But  she  presently  improved 
on    that.       She   found    a    man    selling    cheap 


73 

remnants  at  a  street  corner,  and  straightway 
she  conceived  the  idea  of  making  Simmons's 
clothes  herself.  Decision  was  one  of  her 
virtues,  and  a  suit  of  uproarious  check  tweeds 
was  begun  that  afternoon  from  the  pattern 
furnished  by  an  old  one.  More,  it  was  fin- 
ished by  Sunday  ;  when  Simmons  overcome 
by  astonishment  at  the  feat,  was  indued  in 
it,  and  pushed  off  to  chapel  ere  he  could  re- 
cover his  senses.  The  things  were  not  alto- 
gether comfortable,  he  found  ;  the  trousers 
clung  tight  against  his  shins,  but  hung  loose 
behind  his  heels;  and  when  he  sat,  it  was  on 
a  wilderness  of  hard  folds  and  seams.  Also 
his  waistcoat  collar  tickled  his  nape,  but  his 
coat  collar  went  straining  across  from 
shoulder  to  shoulder;  while  the  main  gar- 
ment bagged  generously  below,  his  waist.  Use 
made  a  habit  of  his  discomfort,  but  it  never 
reconciled  him  to  the  chaff  of  his  shopmates ; 
for  as  Mrs.  Simmons  elaborated  successive 
suits,  each  one  modeled  on  the  last,  the 
primal  accidents  of  her  design  developed  into 
principles,  and  grew  even  bolder  and  more 
hideously  pronounced.  It  was  vain  for 
Simmons  to  hint — as  hint  he  did — that  he 
shouldn't  like  her  to  overwork  herself,  tailor- 
ing being  bad  for  the  eyes,  and  there  was  a 
new    tailor's    in    the    Mile    End    Road,    very 


74 

cheap,  where.  .  .  "  Hoyus,"  she  retorted, 
"  you're  very  consid'rit  I  dessa)'  sittin'  there 
actin'  a  livin'  lie  before  your  own  wife 
Thomas  Simmons  as  though  I  couldn't  see 
through  you  like  a  book.  A  lot  you  care 
about  overworkin'  me  as  long  as  your  turn's 
served  throwin'  away  money  like  dirt  in  the 
street  on  a  lot  o'  swindlin'  tailors  an'  me 
workin*  an'  slavin'  'ere  to  save  a  'apenny  an' 
this  is  my  return  for  it,  anyone  'ud  think  you 
could  pick  up  money  in  the  'orseroad  an'  I 
b'lieve  I'd  be  thought  better  of  if  I  laid  in 
bed  all  day  like  some  would  that  I  do."  So 
that  Thomas  Simmons  avoided  the  subject, 
nor  even  murmured  when  she  resolved  to  cut 
his  hair. 

So  his  placid  fortune  endured  for  years. 
Then  there  came  a  golden  summer  evening 
when  Mrs.  Simmons  betook  herself  with  a  bas- 
ket to  do  some  small  shopping,  and  Simmons 
was  left  at  home.  He  washed  and  put  away 
the  tea-things,  and  then  he  fell  to  meditating 
on  a  new  pair  of  trousers,  finished  that  day 
and  hanging  behind  the  parlor  door.  There 
they  hung,  in  all  their  decent  innocence  of 
shape  in  the  seat,  and  they  were  shorter  of 
leg,  longer  of  waist,  and  wilder  of  pattern 
than  he  had  ever  worn  before.  And  as  he 
looked  on  them  the  small   devil  of   Original 


75 

Sin  awoke  and  clamored  in  his  breast.  He 
was  ashamed  of  it,  of  course,  for  well  he 
knew  the  gratitude  he  owed  his  wife  for  those 
same  trousers,  among  other  blessings.  Still, 
there  the  small  devil  was,  and  the  small  devil 
was  fertile  in  base  suggestions,  and  could  not 
be  kept  from  hinting  at  the  new  crop  of  work- 
shop gibes  that  would  spring  at  Tommy's 
first  public  appearance  in  such  things. 

"  Pitch  'em  in  the  dustbin  !"  said  the  small 
devil  at  last ;  "  it's  all  they're  fit  for." 

Simmons  turned  away  in  sheer  horror  of 
his  wicked  self,  and  for  a  moment  thought  of 
washing  the  tea-things  over  again  by  way  of 
discipline.  Then  he  made  for  the  back  room, 
but  saw  from  the  landing  that  the  front  door 
was  standing  open,  probably  by  the  fault  of 
the  child  downstairs.  Now  a  front  door 
standing  open  was  a  thing  that  Mrs.  Simmons 
would  not  abide  ;  it  looked  low.  So  Sim- 
mons went  down,  that  she  might  not  be 
wroth  with  him  for  the  thing  when  she  came 
back  ;  and,  as  he  shut  the  door,  he  looked 
forth  into  the  street. 

A  man  was  loitering  on  the  pavement,  and 
prying  curiously  about  the  door.  His  face 
was  tanned,  his  hands  were  deep  in  the  pock- 
ets of  his  unbraced  blue  trousers,  and  well 
back  on  his  head  he  wore  the  high-crowned 


;6 

peaked  cap  topped  with  a  knob  of  wool, 
which  is  affected  by  Jack  ashore  about  the 
docks.  He  lurched  a  step  nearer  to  the  door 
and,  "  Mrs.  Ford  ain't  in,  is  she?"  he  said. 

Simmons  stared  at  him  for  a  matter  of  five 
seconds,  and  then  said,  "  Eh  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Ford  as  was,  then — Simmons  now, 
ain't  it?" 

He  said  this  with  a  furtive  leer  that  Sim- 
mons neither  liked  nor  understood. 

"  No,"  said  Simmons,  "  she  ain't  in  now." 

"  You  ain't  her  'usband,  are  ye  ?" 

"Yus." 

The  man  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and 
grinned  silently  and  long.  "  Blimy,"  he  said 
at  length,  "  you  look  the  sort  o'  bloke  she'd 
like," — and  with  that  he  grinned  again.  Then, 
seeing  that  Simmons  made  ready  to  shut  the 
door,  he  put  a  foot  on  the  sill  and  a  hand 
against  the  panel.  "  Don't  be  in  a  'urry, 
matey,"  he  said,  "  I  come  'ere  t'ave  a  little 
talk  with  you,  man  to  man,  d'ye  see  ?"  And 
he  frowned  fiercely. 

Tommy  Simmons  felt  uncomfortable,  but 
the  door  would  not  shut  so  he  parleyed. 
"  Wot-jer  want?"  he  asked.     "  I  dunno  you." 

"  Then  if  you'll  excuse  the  liberty,  I'll  inter- 
dooce  meself,  in  a  manner  of  speaking."  He 
touched  his  cap  with  a  bob  of  mock  humil- 


77 

ity.  "  I'm  Bob  Ford,"  he  said,  "  come  back 
out  o'  kingdom-come,  so  to  say.  Me  as  went 
down  with  the  Mooltan — safe  dead  five  years 
gone.     I  come  to  see  my  wife." 

During  this  speech  Thomas  Simmons's  jaw 
was  dropping  lower  and  lower.  At  the  end 
of  it  he  poked  his  fingers  up  through  his  hair, 
looked  down  at  the  mat,  then  up  at  the  fan- 
light, then  out  into  the  street,  then  hard  at 
his  visitor.     But  he  found  nothing  to  say. 

"  Come  to  see  my  wife,"  the  man  repeated. 
"  So  now  we  can  talk  it  over — as  man  to 
man." 

Simmons  slowly  shut  his  mouth,  and  led  the 
way  upstairs  mechanically,  his  fingers  still 
in  his  hair.  A  sense  of  the  state  of  affairs  sank 
gradually  into  his  brain,  and  the  small  devil 
woke  again.  Suppose  this  man  was  Ford  ? 
Suppose  he  did  claim  his  wife?  Would  it  be 
a  knock-down  blow  ?  Would  it  hit  him  out  ? 
— or  not?  He  thought  of  the  trousers,  the 
tea-things,  the  mangling,  the  knives,  the  ket- 
tles and  the  windows ;  and  he  thought  of 
them  in  the  way  of  a  backslider. 

On  the  landing  Ford  clutched  at  his  arm, 
and  asked  in  a  hoarse  whisper:  "  'Ow  long 
'fore  she's  back  ?" 

"  'Bout  a  hour,  I  expect,"  Simmons  re- 
plied, having  first  of  all  repeated  the  question 


78 

in  his  own  mind.  And  then  he  opened  the 
parlor  door. 

"  Ah,"  said  Ford,  looking  about  him, 
"you've  bin  pretty  comf table.  Them  chairs 
an'  things — "jerking  his  pipe  towards  them — 
"  was  hers — mine  ?  that  is  to  say,  speaking 
straight,  and  man  to  man."  He  sat  down, 
puffing  meditatively  at  his  pipe,  and  pres- 
ently :  "  Well,"  he  continued, "  'ere  I  am  agin, 
ol'  Bob  Ford  dead  an'  done  for — gawn  down 
in  the  Moolta?i.  On'y  I  airit  done  for,  see?" 
— and  he  pointed  the  stem  of  his  pipe  at 
Simmons's  waistcoat.  "  I  ain't  done  for,  'cause 
why  ?  Cons'kence  o'  bein'  picked  up  by  a  ol' 
German  sailin'-'utch  an'  took  to  'Frisco  'fore 
the  mast.  I've  'ad  a  few  years  o'  knockin' 
about  since  then,  an'  now" — looking  hard  at 
Simmons — "I've  come  back  to  see  my  wife." 

"  She — she  don't  like  smoke  in  'ere,"  said 
Simmons,  as  it  were  at  random. 

"  No,  I  bet  she  don't,"  Ford  answered,  tak- 
ing his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  holding  it 
low  in  his  hand.  "  I  know  'Anner.  'Ow 
d'you  find  'er  ?  Do  she  make  ye  clean  the 
winders  ?" 

"  Well,"  Simmons  admitted  uneasily,  "  I — I 
do  'elp  'er  sometimes,  o'  course." 

"  Ah.  An'  the  knives  too,  I  bet,  an'  the 
bloomin'  kittles.     I   know.     Wy — "   he  rose 


79 

and  bent  to  look  behind  Simmons's  head — 
"  's'elp  me,  I  b'lieve  she  cuts  )rer  'air  !  Well, 
I'm  damned  !     Jes'  wot  she  would  do,  too." 

He  inspected  the  blushing  Simmons  from 
divers  points  of  advantage.  Then  he  lifted 
a  leg  of  the  trousers  hanging  behind  the  door. 
"  I'd  bet  a  trifle,"  he  said,  "she  made  these 
'ere  trucks.  Nobody  else  'ud  do  'em  like 
that.  Damme — they're  wuss'n  wot  you're 
got  on." 

The  small  devil  began  to  have  the  argu- 
ment all  its  own  way.  If  this  man  took  his 
wife  back  perhaps  he'd  have  to  wear  those 
trousers. 

"Ah!"  Ford  pursued,  "she  ain't  got  no 
milder.     An'  my  davy,  wot  a  jore  !" 

Simmons  began  to  feel  that  this  was  no 
longer  his  business.  Plainly,  'Anner  was 
this  other  man's  wife,  and  he  was  bound  in 
honor  to  acknowledge  the  fact.  The  small 
devil  put  it  to  him  as  a  matter  of  duty. 

"  Well,"  said  Ford  suddenly,  "  time's  short 
an'  this  ain't  business.  I  won't  be  'arc!  on  yon, 
matey.  I  ought  prop'ly  to  stand  on  my 
rights,  but  seein'  as  you're  a  well-meanin' 
young  man,  so  to  speak,  an'  all  settled  an' 
a-livin'  'ere  quiet  an'  matrimonual,  I'll" — this 
with  a  burst  of  generosity — "  damme,  yus, 
I'll  compound  the  felon)',  an'  take  me  'ook. 


So 


Come,  I'll  name  a  figure,  as  man  to  man, 
fust  an'  last,  no  less  an'  no  more.  Five  pound 
does  it." 

Simmons  hadn't  five  pounds — he  hadn't 
even  five  pence — and  he  said  so.  "An'  I 
wouldn't  think  for  to  come  between  a  man 
an'  'is  wife,"  he  added,  "  not  on  no  account. 
It  may  be  rough  on  me,  but  it's  a  dooty.  I'll 
'ook  it." 

"  No,"  said  Ford,  hastily,  clutching  Sim- 
mons by  the  arm,  "don't  do  that.  I'll  make 
it  a  bit  cheaper.  Say  three  quid — come, 
that's  reasonable,  ain't  it?  Three  quid  ain't 
much  compensation  for  me  goin'  away  for- 
ever— where  the  stormy  winds  do  blow,  so  to 
say — an'  never  as  much  as  seein'  me  own 
wife  agin*  for  better  nor  wuss.  Between 
man  an'  man  now — three  quid  ;  an'  I'll  shunt. 
That's  fair,  ain't  it?" 

"  Of  course  it's  fair,"  Simmons  replied, 
effusively.  "  It's  more'n  fair  ;  it's  noble — 
downright  noble,  /  call  it.  But  I  ain't  goin' 
to  take  a  mean  advantage  o'  your  good-'arted- 
ness,  Mr.  Ford.  She's  your  wife,  an'  I 
oughtn't  to  'a'  come  between  you.  I  apolo- 
gize. You  stop  an'  'ave  yer  proper  rights. 
It's  me  as  ought  to  shunt,  an'  I  will."  And 
he  made  a  step  toward  the  door. 

41  'Old  on,'   quoth   Ford,  and  got   between 


8i 


Simmons  and  the  door ;  "  don't  do  things 
rash.  Look  wot  a  loss  it'll  be  to  you  with  no 
'ome  to  go  to,  an'  nobody  to  look  after  ye, 
an'  all  that.  It'll  be  dreadful.  Say  a  couple 
— there,  we  won't  quarrel,  jest  a  single  quid, 
between  man  an'  man,  an'  I'll  stand  a  pot  out 
o'  the  money.  You  can  easy  raise  a  quid — 
the  clock  *ud  pretty  nigh  do  it.  A  quid  does 
it ;  an'  I'll—" 

There  was  a  loud  double-knock  at  the  front 
door.  In  the  East  End  a  double-knock  is 
always  for  the  upstairs  lodgers. 

"  Oo's  that?"  asked  Bob  Ford,  appre- 
hensively. 

"  I'll  see,"  said  Thomas  Simmons  in  reply, 
and  he  made  a  rush  for  the  staircase. 

Bob  Ford  heard  him  open  the  front  door. 
Then  he  went  to  the  window,  and,  just  below 
him,  he  saw  the  crown  of  a  bonnet.  It 
vanished,  and  borne  to  him  from  within  the 
door  there  fell  upon  his  ear  the  sound  of  a 
well-remembered  female  voice. 

"  Where  ye  goin'  now  with  no  'at  ?"  asked 
the  voice  sharply. 

"Awright,  'Anner — there's — there's  some- 
body upstairs  to  see  you,"  Simmons  answered. 
And,  as  Bob  Ford  could  see,  a  man  went 
scuttling  down  the  street  in  the  gathering 
dusk.     And  behold,  it  was  Thomas  Simmons. 


82 


Ford  reached  the  landing  in  three  strides. 
His  wife  was  still  at  the  front  door,  staring 
after  Simmons.  He  flung  into  the  back 
room,  threw  open  the  window,  dropped  from 
the  wash-house  roof  into  the  back-yard, 
scrambled  desperately  over  the  fence,  and 
disappeared  into  the  gloom.  He  was  seen 
by  no  living  soul.  And  that  is  why  Sim- 
mons's  base  desertion — under  his  wife's  very 
e)res,  too — is  still  an  astonishment  to  the 
neighbors. 


BEHIND   THE  SHADE 

The  street  was  the  common  East  End 
street — two  parallels  of  brick  pierced  with 
windows  and  doors.  But  at  the  end  of  one, 
where  the  builder  had  found  a  remnant  of 
land  too  small  for  another  six-roomer,  there 
stood  an  odd  box  of  a  cottage,  with  three 
rooms  and  a  wash-house.  It  had  a  green 
door  with  a  well-blacked  knocker  round  the 
corner  ;  and  in  the  lower  window  in  front 
stood  a  "  shade  of  fruit" — a  cone  of  waxen 
grapes  and  apples  under  a  glass  cover. 

Although  the  house  was  smaller  than  the 
others,  and  was  built  upon  a  remnant,  it  was 
always  a  house  of  some  consideration.  In  a 
street  like  this  mere  independence  of  pattern 
gives  distinction.  And  a  house  inhabited  by 
one  sole  family  makes  a  figure  among  houses 
inhabited  by  two  or  more,  even  though  it  be 
the  smallest  of  all.  And  here  the  seal  of 
respectability  was  set  by  the  shade  of  fruit — 

[83] 


84 

a  sign  accepted  in  those  parts.  Now,  when 
people  keep  a  house  to  themselves,  and  keep 
it  clean  ;  when  they  neither  stand  at  the  doors 
nor  gossip  across  back-fences  ;  when,  more- 
over, they  have  a  well-dusted  shade  of  fruit 
in  the  front  window  ;  and,  especially,  when 
they  are  two  women  who  tell  nobody  their 
business  ;  they  are  known  at  once  for  well-to- 
do,  and  are  regarded  with  the  admixture  of 
spite  and  respect  that  is  proper  to  the  cir- 
cumstances.    They  are  also  watched. 

Still,  the  neighbors  knew  the  history  of  the 
Perkinses,  mother  and  daughter,  in  its  main 
features,  with  little  disagreement  ;  having 
told  it  to  each  other,  filling  in  the  details 
when  occasion  seemed  to  serve.  Perkins, 
ere  he  died,  had  been  a  shipwright ;  and  this 
was  when  the  shipwrights  were  the  aristoc- 
racy of  the  work-shops,  and  he  that  worked 
more  than  three  or  four  days  a  week  was 
counted  a  mean  slave  ;  it  was  long  (in  fact) 
before  depression,  strikes,  iron  plates,  and 
collective  blindness  had  driven  shipbuilding 
to  the  Clyde.  Perkins  had  labored  no  harder 
than  his  fellows,  had  married  a  tradesman's 
daughter,  and  had  spent  his  money  with  free- 
dom; and  some  while  after  his  death  his 
widow  and  daughter  came  to  live  in  the  small 
house,  and  kept  a  school  for  tradesmen's  little 


85 

girls  in  a  back  room  over  the  wash-house. 
But  as  the  School  Board  waxed  in  power, 
and  the  tradesmen's  pride  in  regard  thereunto 
waned,  the  attendance,  never  large,  came 
down  to  twos  and  threes.  Then  Mrs.  Per- 
kins met  with  her  accident.  A  dweller  in 
Stidder's  Rents  overtook  her  one  night,  and 
having  vigorously  punched  her  in  the  face 
and  the  breast,  kicked  her  and  jumped  on  her 
for  five  minutes  as  she  lay  on  the  pavement. 
(In  the  dark,  it  afterwards  appeared,  he  had 
mistaken  her  for  his  mother.)  The  one  dis- 
tinct opinion  the  adventure  bred  in  the  street 
was  Mrs.  Webster's,  the  little  Bethelite,  who 
considered  it  a  judgment  for  sinful  pride — 
for  Mrs.  Perkins  had  been  a  Church-goer. 
But  the  neighbors  never  saw  Mrs.  Perkins 
again.  The  doctor  left  his  patient  "  as  well 
as  she  ever  would  be,"  but  bed-ridden  and 
helpless.  Her  daughter  was  a  scraggy,  sharp- 
faced  woman  of  thirty  or  so,  whose  black 
dress  hung  from  her  hips  as  from  a  wooden 
frame  ;  and  some  people  got  into  the  way  of 
calling  her  Mrs.  Perkins,  seeing  no  other 
thus  to  honor.  And,  meantime,  the  school 
had  ceased,  although  Miss  Perkins  essayed  a 
revival,  and  joined  a  Dissenting  chapel  to 
that  end. 

Then,    one    day,  a    card    appeared    in    the 


86 


window,  over  the  shade  of  fruit,  with  the 
legend  "  Pianoforte  Lessons."  It  was  not  ap- 
proved by  the  street.  It  was  a  standing 
advertisement  of  the  fact  that  the  Perkinses 
had  a  piano,  which  others  had  not.  It  also 
revealed  a  grasping  spirit  on  the  part  of 
people  able  to  keep  a  house  to  themselves, 
with  red  curtains  and  a  shade  of  fruit  in  the 
parlor  window  ;  who,  moreover,  had  been 
able  to  give  up  keeping  a  school  because  of 
ill-health.  The  pianoforte  lessons  were  eight 
and-sixpence  a  quarter,  two  a  week.  No- 
bod}'  was  ever  known  to  take  them  but  the 
relieving  officer's  daughter,  and  she  paid  six- 
pence a  lesson,  to  see  how  she  got  on,  and 
left  off  in  three  weeks.  The  card  stayed  in 
the  window  a  fortnight  longer,  and  none  of 
the  neighbors  saw  the  cart  that  came  in  the 
night  and  took  away  the  old  cabinet  piano 
with  the  channeled  keys,  that  had  been 
fourth-hand  when  Perkins  bought  it  twenty 
years  ago.  Mrs.  Clark,  the  widow  who 
sewed  far  into  the  night,  may  possibly  have 
heard  a  noise  and  looked  ;  but  she  said  noth- 
ing if  she  did.  There  was  no  card  in  the 
window  next  morning,  but  the  shade  of 
fruit  stood  primly  respectable  as  ever.  The 
curtains  were  drawn  a  little  closer  across, 
for  some  of  the  children  playing  in  the  street 


87 


were  used  to  flatten  their  faces  against  the 
lower  panes,  and  to  discuss  the  piano,  the 
stuff-bottomed  chairs,  the  antimacassars,  the 
mantlepiece  ornaments,  and  the  loo  table 
with  the  family  Bible  and  the  album  on  it. 

It  was  soon  after  this  that  the  Perkinses 
altogether  ceased  from  shopping — ceased,  at 
any  rate,  in  that  neighborhood.  Trade  with 
them  had  already  been  dwindling,  and  it  was 
said  that  Miss  Perkins  was  getting  stingier 
than  her  mother — who  had  been  stingy 
enough  herself.  Indeed,  the  Perkins  de- 
meanor began  to  change  for  the  worse,  to  be 
significant  of  a  miserly  retirement  and  an 
offensive  alienation  from  the  rest  of  the  street. 
One  day  the  deacon  called,  as  was  his  prac- 
tise  now  and  then;  but,  being  invited  no 
further  than  the  doorstep,  he  went  away  in 
dudgeon,  and  did  not  return.  Nor,  indeed, 
was  Miss  Perkins  seen  agnin  at  chapel. 

Then  there  was  a  discovery.  The  spare 
figure  of  Miss  Perkins  was  seldom  seen  in  the 
streets,  and  then  almost  always  at  night  ;  but 
on  these  occasions  she  was  observed  to  carry 
parcels,  of  varying  wrappings  and  shapes. 
Once,  in  broad  daylight,  with  a  package  in 
newspaper,  she  made  such  haste  past  a  shop- 
window  where  stood  Mrs.  Webster  and  Mrs. 
Jones,  that  she  tripped  on  the  broken  sole  of 


88 


one  shoe,  and  fell  headlong.  The  newspaper 
broke  away  from  its  pins,  and  although  the 
woman  reached  and  recovered  her  parcel  be- 
fore she  rose,  it  was  plain  to  see  that  it  was 
made  up  of  cheap  shirts,  cut  out  ready  for 
the  stitching.  The  street  had  the  news  the 
same  hour,  and  it  was  generally  held  that 
such  a  taking  of  the  bread  out  of  the  mouths 
of  them  that  wanted  it  by  them  that  had 
plenty  was  a  scandal  and  a  shame,  and  ought 
to  be  put  a  stop  to.  And  Mrs.  Webster, 
foremost  in  the  setting  right  of  things,  under- 
took to  find  out  whence  the  work  came,  and 
to  say  a  few  plain  words  in  the  right  quarter. 

All  this  while  nobody  watched  closely 
enough  to  note  that  the  parcels  brought  in 
were  fewer  than  the  parcels  taken  out.  Even 
a  hand-truck,  late  one  evening,  went  unre- 
marked, the  door  being  round  the  coiner, 
and  most  people  within.  One  morning, 
though,  Miss  Perkins,  her  best  foot  foremost, 
was  venturing  along  a  near  street  with  an 
outgoing  parcel — large  and  triangular  and 
wrapped  in  white  drugget — when  the  reliev- 
ing: officer  turned  the  corner  across  the  wav. 

The  relieving  officer  was  a  man  in  whose 
system  of  etiquette  the  Perkinses  had  caused 
some  little  disturbance.  His  ordinary  female 
acquaintances    (not,   of   course,   professional) 


89 

he  was  in  the  habit  of  recognizing  by  a 
gracious  nod.  When  he  met  the  minister's 
wife  he  lifted  his  hat,  instantly  assuming  an 
intense  frown,  in  the  event  of  irreverent 
observation.  Now  he  quite  felt  that  the 
Perkinses  were  entitled  to  some  advance 
upon  the  nod,  although  it  would  be  absurd 
to  raise  them  to  a  level  with  the  minister's 
wife.  So  he  had  long  since  established  a 
compromise  ;  he  closed  his  finger  and  thumb 
upon  the  brim  of  his  hat,  and  let  his  hand  fall 
forthwith.  Preparing  now  to  accomplish 
this  salute,  he  was  astounded  to  see  that  Miss 
Perkins,  as  soon  as  she  was  aware  of  his 
approach,  turned  her  face,  which  was  rather 
flushed,  away  from  him,  and  went  hurrying 
onward,  looking  at  the  wall  on  her  side  of  the 
street.  The  relieving  officer,  checking  his 
hand  on  its  way  to  his  hat,  stopped  and 
looked  after  her  as  she  turned  the  corner, 
hugging  her  parcel  on  the  side  next  the  wall. 
Then  he  shouldered  his  umbrella  and  pur- 
sued his  way,  holding  his  head  high,  and 
staring  fiercely  straight  before  him  ;  for  a 
relieving  officer  is  not  used  to  being  cut. 

It  was  a  little  after  this  that  Mr.  Crouch, 
the  landlord,  called.  He  had  not  been  call- 
ing regularly,  because  of  late  Miss  Perkins 
had  left  her  five  shillings  of  rent   with  Mrs. 


go 

Crouch  every  Saturday  evening.  He  noted 
with  satisfaction  the  whitened  sills  and  the 
shade  of  fruit,  behind  which  the  curtains  were 
now  drawn  close  and  pinned  together.  He 
turned  the  corner  and  lifted  the  bright 
knocker.  Miss  Perkins  half  opened  the  door, 
stood  in  the  opening,  and  began  to  speak. 

His  jaw  dropped.  "  Beg  pardon — forgot 
something.  Won't  wait — call  next  week — 
do  just  as  well;"  and  he  hurried  round  the 
corner  and  down  the  street,  puffing  and 
blowing  and  staring.  "  Why,  the  woman 
frightened  me,"  he  afterward  explained  to 
Mrs.  Crouch.  "There's  something  wrong 
with  her  eyes,  and  she  looked  like  a  corpse. 
The  rent  wasn't  ready — I  could  see  that 
before  she  spoke  ;  so  I  cleared  out." 

"  P'r'aps  something's  happened  to  the  old 
lady,"  suggested  Mrs.  Crouch.  "  Anyhow, 
I  should  think  the  rent  'ud  be  all  right." 
And  he  thought  it  would. 

Nobody  saw  the  Perkinses  that  week. 
The  shade  of  fruit  stood  in  its  old  place,  but 
was  thought  not  to  have  been  dusted  after 
Tuesday.  Certainly  the  sills  and  the  door- 
step were  neglected.  Friday,  Saturday  and 
Sunday  were  swallowed  up  in  a  choking 
brown  fog,  wherein  men  lost  their  bearings, 
and  fell  into  docks,  and  stepped  over  embank- 


9i 

ment  edges.  It  was  as  though  a  great  blot 
had  fallen,  and  had  obliterated  three  days 
from  the  calendar.  It  cleared  on  Monday 
morning,  and,  just  as  the  women  in  the  street 
were  sweeping  their  steps,  Mr.  Crouch  was 
seen  at  the  green  door.  He  lifted  the 
knocker,  dull  and  sticky  now  with  the  foul 
vapor,  and  knocked  a  gentle  rat-tat.  There 
was  no  answer.  He  knocked  again,  a  little 
louder,  and  waited,  listening.  But  there  was 
neither  voice  nor  movement  within.  He 
gave  three  heavy  knocks,  and  then  came 
round  to  the  front  window.  There  was  the 
shade  of  fruit,  the  glass  a  little  duller  on  the 
top,  the  curtains  pinned  close  about  it,  and 
nothing  to  see  beyond  them.  He  tapped  at 
the  window  with  his  knuckles,  and  backed 
into  the  roadway  to  look  at  the  one  above. 
This  was  a  window  with  a  striped  holland 
blind  and  a  short  net  curtain  ;  but  never  a 
face  was  there. 

The  sweepers  stopped  to  look,  and  one 
from  opposite  came  and  reported  that  she 
had  seen  nothing  of  Miss  Perkins  for  a  week, 
and  that  certainly  nobody  had  left  the  house 
that  morning.  And  Mr.  Crouch  grew  ex- 
cited, and  bellowed  through  the  keyhole. 

In  the  end  they  opened  the  sash-fastening 
with  a  knife,   moved   the  shade  of  fruit,  and 


92 

got  in.  The  room  was  bare  and  empty,  and 
their  steps  and  voices  resounded  as  those  of 
people  in  an  unfurnished  house.  The  wash- 
house  was  vacant,  but  it  was  clean,  and  there 
was  a  little  net  curtain  in  the  window.  The 
short  passage  and  the  stairs  were  bare  boards. 
In  the  back  room  by  the  stair-head  was  a 
drawn  window-blind,  and  that  was  all.  In 
the  front  room  with  the  striped  blind  and  the 
short  curtain  there  was  a  bed  of  rags  and  old 
newspapers  ;  also  a  wooden  box  ;  and  on  each 
of  these  was  a  dead  woman. 

Both  deaths,  the  doctor  found,  were  from 
syncope,  the  result  of  inanition;  and  the 
better-nourished  woman — she  on  the  bed — 
had  died  the  sooner  ;  perhaps  by  a  day  or 
two.  The  other  case  was  rather  curious; 
it  exhibited  a  degree  of  shrinkage  in  the  di- 
gestive organs  unprecedented  in  his  experi- 
ence. After  the  inquest  the  street  had  an 
evening's  fame  ;  for  the  papers  printed  coarse 
drawings  of  the  house,  and  in  leaderettes  de- 
manded the  abolition  of  something.  Then  it 
became  its  wonted  self.  And  it  was  doubted 
if  the  waxen  apples  and  the  curtains  fetched 
enough  to  pay  Mr.  Crouch  his  fortnight's 
rent. 


THREE   ROUNDS 

At  six  o'clock  the  back  streets  were  dank 
and  black  ;  but  once  in  the  Bethnal  Green 
Road,  blots  and  flares  of  gas  and  naphtha 
shook  and  flickered  till  every  slimy  cobble 
in  the  cartway  was  silver-tipped.  Neddy 
Milton  was  not  quite  fighting-fit.  A  day's 
questing  for  an  odd  job  had  left  him  weary 
in  the  feet ;  and  a  lad  of  eighteen  cannot 
comfortably  go  unfed  from  breakfast  to 
night-fall.  But  box  he  must,  for  the  shilling 
was  irrecoverable,  and  so  costly  a  chance 
must  not  be  thrown  away.  It  was  by  a  bout 
with  the  gloves  that  he  looked  to  mend  his 
fortunes.  That  was  his  only  avenue  of 
advancement.  He  could  read  and  write 
quite  decently,  and  in  the  beginning  might 
even  have  been  an  office-boy,  if  only  the 
widow,  his  mother,  had  been  able  to  give  him 
a  good  send-off  in  the  matter  of  clothes. 
Also,  he  had  had  one  chance  of  picking  up  a 

[93] 


94 

trade,  but  the  firm  already  employed  as  many 
boys  as  the  union  was  disposed  to  allow. 
So  Neddy  had  to  go,  and  pick  up  such  stray 
jobs  as  he  might. 

It  had  been  a  bad  day,  without  a  doubt. 
Things  were  bad  generally.  It  was  nearly  a 
fortnight  since  Ned  had  lost  his  last  job,  and 
there  seemed  to  be  no  other  in  the  world. 
His  mother  had  had  no  slop-waistcoat  finish- 
ing to  do  for  three  or  four  days,  and  he  dis- 
tinctly remembered  that  rather  less  than  half 
a  loaf  was  left  after  breakfast ;  so  that  it 
would  never  do  to  go  home,  for  at  such  a 
time  the  old  woman  had  a  trick  of  pretend- 
ing not  to  be  hungry,  and  of  starving  herself. 
He  almost  wished  that  shilling  of  entrance- 
money  back  in  his  pocket.  There  is  a  deal 
of  stuff  to  be  bought  for  a  shilling  ;  fried  fish, 
for  instance,  whereof  the  aromas,  warm  and 
rank,  met  him  thrice  in  a  hundred  yards,  and 
the  frizzle,  loud  or  faint,  sang  in  his  ears 
all  along  the  Bethnal  Green  Road.  His 
shilling  had  been  paid  over  but  two  days 
before  the  last  job  gave  out,  and  it  would  be 
useful  now.  Still,  the  investment  might  turn 
out  a  gold  mine.  Luck  must  change. 
Meanwhile,  as  to  being  hungry — well,  there 
was  always  another  hole  in  the  belt ! 

The  landlord   of  the  Prince  Regent  public 


95 

house  had  a  large  room  behind  his  premises, 
which,  being  moved  by  considerations  of 
sport  and  profit  in  doubtful  proportions,  he 
devoted  two  nights  a  week  to  the  uses  of  the 
Regent  Boxing  Club.  Here  Neddy  Milton, 
through  a  long  baptism  of  pummelings,  had 
learned  the  trick  of  a  straight  lead,  a  quick 
counter,  and  a  timely  duck  ;  and  here,  in  the 
nine-stone  competition  to  open  this  very 
night,  he  might  perchance  punch  wide  the 
gates  of  Fortune.  For  some  sporting  pub- 
lican, or  discriminating  bookmaker  from  Bow, 
might  see  and  aprove  his  sparring,  and  start 
him  fairly,  with  money  behind  him — a  pro- 
fessional. That  would  mean  a  match  in  six 
or  eight  weeks'  time,  with  good  living  in  the 
meanwhile  ;  a  match  that  would  have  to  be 
won,  of  course.     And  after  that  .     .     .  ! 

Twice  before  he  had  boxed  in  a  competi- 
tion. Once  he  won  his  bout  in  the  first  round, 
and  was  beaten  in  the  second  ;  and  once  he 
was  beaten  in  the  first,  but  that  was  by  the 
final  winner,  Tab  Rosser,  who  was  now 
matched  for  a  hundred  a  side,  sparred  exhibi- 
tion bouts  up  west,  wore  a  light  Newmarket 
coat,  and  could  stand  whisky  and  soda  with 
anybody.  To  be  "  taken  up  "  on  the  strength 
of  these  early  performances  was  more  than 
he  could  reasonably  expect.     There  might  be 


96 

luck  in  the  third  trial;  but  he  would  like  to 
feel  a  little  fitter.  Breakfast  (what  there  was 
of  it)  had  been  ten  hours  ago,  and  since  there 
had  been  but  a  half-pint  of  four-ale.  It  was 
the  treat  of  a  well-meaning  friend,  but  it  lay 
cold  on  the  stomach  for  want  of  sold  company. 
Turning  into  Cambridge  Road,  he  crossed, 
and  went  on  among  the  by-streets  leading 
toward  Globe  Road.  Now  and  again  a  slight 
aspersion  of  fine  rain  came  down  the  gusts, 
and  further  damped  his  cap  and  shoulders 
and  the  ragged  hair  that  hung  over  his  collar. 
Also  a  cold  spot  under  one  foot  gave  him 
fears  of  a  hole  in  his  boot-sole  as  he  tramped 
in  the  chilly  mud. 

In  the  Prince  Regent  there  were  many  at 
the  bar,  and  the  most  of  them  knew  Neddy. 

"  Wayo,  Ned,"  said  one  lad  with  a  pitted 
face,  "you  don't  look  much  of  a  bleed'n' 
champion.     'Ave  a  drop  o'  beer." 

Ned  took  a  sparing  pull  at  the  pot,  and 
wiped  his  mouth  on  his  sleeve.  A  large  man 
behind  him  guffawed,  and  Neddy  reddened 
high.  He  had  heard  the  joke.  The  man 
himself  was  one  of  the  very  backers  that 
might  make  one's  fortune,  and  the  man's  com- 
panion thought  it  would  be  unsafe  to  back 
Neddy  to  fight  anything  but  a  beefsteak. 


97 

"  You're  drawed  with  Patsy  Beard,"  one 
of  Ned's  friends  informed  him.  "  You'll  'ave 
to  buck  up." 

This  was  bad.  Patsy  Beard,  on  known 
form,  stood  best  chance  of  winning-  the  com- 
petition, and  to  have  to  meet  him  at  first 
set-off  was  ill  luck,  and  no  mistake.  He  was 
a  thickset  little  butcher,  and  there  was  just 
the  ghost  of  a  hope  that  he  might  be  found  to 
be  a  bit  over  the  weight. 

A  lad  by  the  bar  looked  inquiringly  in 
Ned's  face  and  then  came  toward  him,  shoul- 
dering him  quietly  out  of  the  group.  It  was 
Sam  Young,  whom  Neddy  had  beaten  in  an 
earlier  competition. 

"  'Ungry,  Neddy  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  corner. 

It  was  with  a  shamed  face  that  Neddy  con- 
fessed, for  among  those  in  peril  of  hunger  it 
is  disgraceful  to  be  hungry.  Sam  unpocketed 
a  greasy  paper,  enveloping  a  pallid  sausage- 
roll.     "  'Ave  'alf  o'  this,'  he  said. 

It  was  a  heavy  and  a  clammy  thing,  but 
Ned  took  it,  furtively  swallowed  a  large 
piece,  and  returned  the  rest  with  sheepish 
thanks.  He  did  not  turn  again  toward  the 
others,  but  went  through  to  the  room  where 
the  ring  was  pitched. 

The  proceedings  began.  First  there  were 
exhibition    bouts,  to    play    in   the     company. 


98 

Neddy  fidgeted.  Why  couldn't  they  begin 
the  competition  at  once  ?  When  they  did,  his 
bout  would  be  number  five.  That  would 
mean  at  least  an  hour  of  waiting  ;  and  the 
longer  he  waited  the  less  fit  he  would  feel. 

In  time  the  exhibition  sparring  was  ended, 
and  the  real  business  began.  He  watched 
the  early  bouts  feverishly,  feeling  unaccount- 
ably anxious.  The  lads  looked  strong  and 
healthy.  Patsy  Beard  was  as  strong  as  any 
of  them,  and  heavy.  Could  he  stand  it? 
This  excited  nervousness  was  new  and  diffi- 
cult to  understand.  He  had  never  felt  like 
it  before.  He  was  almost  trembling  ;  and 
that  lump  of  sausage-roll  had  stuck  half-way, 
and  made  breathing  painful  work.  Patsy 
Beard  was  at  the  opposite  corner,  surrounded 
by  admirers.  He  was  red-faced,  well-fed* 
fleshy,  and  confident.  His  short  hair  clung 
shinily  about  his  bullet  head.  Neddy  noted 
a  small  piece  of  court-plaster  at  the  side  of 
his  nose.  Plainly  there  was  a  tender  spot,  ami 
it  must  be  gone  for,  be  it  cut,  or  scratch,  or 
only  pimple.  On  the  left  side,  too,  quite  handy. 
Come,  there  \v;is  some  comfort  in  that. 

He  fell  to  watching  the  bout.  It  was  a 
hard  fight,  and  both  the  lads  were  swinging 
the  right  again  and  again  for  a  knock-out. 
But  the   pace   was  too   hot,  and    they    were 


99 

soon  breathing  like  men  about  to  sneeze, 
wearily  pawing  at  each  other,  while  their 
heads  hung  forward.  Somebody  jogged  him 
in  the  back,  and  he  found  he  must  get  ready. 
His  dressing  was  simple.  An  ill-conditioned 
old  pair  of  rubber  gymnasium  shoes  replaced 
his  equally  ill-conditioned  bluchers,  and  a 
cotton  singlet  his  shirt  ;  but  his  baggy  cordu- 
roys, ragged  at  the  ankles  and  doubtful  at 
the  seat,  remained. 

Presently  the  last  pair  of  boxers  was 
brought  into  the  dressing-room,  and  one  of 
the  seconds,  a  battered  old  pug  with  one  eye, 
at  once  seized  Neddy.  "  Come  along,  young 
*un,"  he  said.  "  I'm  your  bloke.  Got  no 
flannels?     Awright.     Jump  on  the  scales." 

There  was  no  doubt  as  to  the  weight.  He 
had  scaled  at  eight  ^stone  thirteen  ;  now  it 
was  eight  stone  bare.  Patsy  Beard,  on  the 
other  hand,  weighed  the  full  nine,  without  an 
ounce  to  spare. 

"  You're  givin'  'im  a  stone,"  said  the  old 
pug  ;  "  all  the  more  credit  'idin'  of  'im.  'Ere, 
let's  shove  'em  on.  Feel  'em."  He  grinned 
and  blinked  his  solitary  eye  as  he  pulled  on 
Neddy's  hand  one  of  a  very  black  and  long- 
worn  pair  of  boxing-gloves.  They  were  soft 
and  flaccid  ;  Neddy's  heart  warmed  toward 
the  one-eyed    man,  for  well  he  knew   from 


IOO 

many  knocks  that  the  softer  the  glove  the 
harder  the  fist  feels  through  it.  "  Sawftest 
pair  in  the  place,  s'elp  me,"  grunted  the  sec- 
ond, with  one  glove  hanging  from  his  teeth. 
"  My  lad  'ad  'em  last  time.     Come  on." 

He  snatched  a  towel  and  a  bottle  of  water, 
and  hurried  Neddy  from  the  dressing-room 
to  the  ring.  Neddy  sat  in  his  chair  in  the 
ring-corner,  and  spread  his  arms  on  the  ropes  ; 
while  his  second,  arms  uplifted,  stood  before 
him  and  ducked  solemnly  forward  and  back 
with  the  towel  flicking  overhead.  While  he 
was  fanning,  Neddy  was  still  conscious  of  the 
lump  of  sausage-roll  in  his  chest.  Also  he 
fell  to  wondering  idly  why  they  called  Beard 
Patsy,  when  his  first  name  was  Joe.  The 
same  reflection  applied  to  Tab  Rosser,  and 
Hocko  Jones,  and  Tiggy  Magson.  But  cer- 
tainly he  felt  hollow  and  sick  in  the  belly. 
Could  he  stand  punching?  It  would  never 
do  to  chuck  it  half  through.     Still — 

"  Ready  !"  sang  the  timekeeper. 

The  old  pug  threw  the  towel  over  his  arm. 
"  'Ave  a  moistener,"  he  said,  presenting  the 
water-bottle  to  Neddy's  mouth.  "  Don't 
swaller  any,"  he  added,  as  his  principal  took 
a  large  gulp.     "  Spit  it  out." 

"  Seconds  out  of  the  ring!" 

The  old  prize-fighter  took   his   bottle  and. 


ior 

climbed  through  the  ropes.  "  Don't  go  in- 
fightinV' he  whispered  from  behind.  "Mark 
'im  on  the  stickin'-plaster  ;  an'  if  you  don't 
give  'im  a  'idin',  bli'  me,  I'll  give  you  one  !" 

"  Time  !" 

The  seconds  seized  the  chairs  and  dragged 
them  out  of  the  ring,  as  the  lads  advanced 
and  shook  hands.  Patsy  Beard  flung  back 
his  right  foot  and  made  a  flashy  prance  with 
his  left  knee  as  they  began  to  spar  for  an 
opening  ;  it  was  Patsy's  way.  All  Neddy's 
anxiety  was  gone.  The  moment  his  right 
foot  dropped  behind  his  left,  and  his  left  hand 
rocked,  knuckles  up,  before  him,  he  was  a 
competent  workman,  with  all  his  tools  in 
order.  Even  the  lump  of  dough  on  his  chest 
he  felt  no  more. 

"  Buy,  buy  !"  bawled  a  wag  in  the  crowd, 
as  a  delicate  allusion  to  Beard's  more  ordin- 
ary occupation.  Patsy  grinned  at  the  com- 
pliment, but  Neddy  confined  his  attention  to 
business.  He  feinted  with  his  left,  and  got 
back  ;  but  Patsy  was  not  to  be  drawn.  Then 
Neddy  stepped  in  and  led  quickly,  ducking 
the  counter  and  repeating  before  getting 
away.  Patsy  came  with  a  rush  and  fought 
for  the  body,  but  Neddy  slipped  him,  and 
got  in  one  for  nothing  on  the  ear.  The  com- 
pany howled. 


102 


They  sparred  in  the  middle.  Patsy  led  per- 
functorily with  the  left  now  and  again,  while 
his  right  elbow  undulated  nervously.  That 
foretold  an  attempt  to  knock  out  with  the 
right ;  precautions,  a  straight  and  persistent 
left  and  a  wary  eye.  So  Neddy  kept  poking 
out  his  left,  and  never  lost  sight  of  the  court- 
plaster,  never  of  the  shifty  right.  Give  and 
take  was  the  order  of  the  round,  and  they 
fought  all  over  the  ring.  Patsy  Beard  mak- 
ing for  close  quarters,  and  Neddy  keeping  off 
and  stopping  him  with  the  left.  Neddy  met  a 
straight  punch  on  the  nose  that  made  his  eyes 
water,  but  through  the  tears  he  saw  the 
plaster  displaced  and  a  tiny  stream  of  blood 
trickling  toward  the  corner  of  Patsy's  mouth. 
Plainly  it  was  a  cut.  lie  broke  ground* 
stopped  half-way  and  banged  in  left  and  right. 
He  got  a  sharp  drive  on  the  neck  for  his 
pains,  and  took  the  right  on  his  elbow  ;  but  he 
had  landed  on  the  spot,  and  the  tiny  streak  of 
blood  was  smeared  out  wide  across  Patsy's 
face.  The  companjr  roared  and  whistled 
with  enthusiasm.      It  was  a  capital  rally. 

But  now  Neddy's  left  grew  slower,  and 
was  heavy  to  lift.  From  time  to  time  Patsy 
got  in  one  for  nothing,  and  soon  began  to 
drive  him  about  the  ring.  Neddy  fought  on, 
weak  and  gasping,  and  longed  for  the  call  of 


*o3 

time.  His  arms  felt  as  they  were  hung  with 
lead,  and  he  could  do  little  more  than  push 
feebly.  He  heard  the  yell  of  many  voices: 
11  Now  then,  Patsy,  hout  him  !  'Ave  'im  out! 
That's  it,  Patsy,  another  like  that  !  Keep  on, 
Patsy  !" 

Patsy  kept  on.  Right  and  left,  above  and 
below,  Neddy  could  see  the  blows  coming. 
But  he  was  powerless  to  guard  or  to  return. 
He  could  but  stagger  about,  and  now  and 
again  swing  an  ineffectual  arm  as  it  hung 
from  the  shoulder.  Presently  a  flush  hit  on 
the  nose  drove  him  against  the  ropes,  another 
in  the  ribs  almost  through  them.  But,  a 
desperate,  wide  whirl  of  his  right  brought  it 
heavily  on  Patsy's  tender  spot,  and  tore  open 
the  cut.     Patsy  winced,  and — 

"  Time  !" 

Neddy  was  grabbed  at  the  waist  and  put 
in  his  chair.  "  Good  lad !"  said  the  one- 
eyed  pug  in  his  ear  as  he  sponged  his  face. 
"  Nothink  like  pluck.  But  you  mustn't  go 
to  pieces  'alf  through  the  round.  Was  it  a 
awk'ard  poke  upsetcher?" 

Neddy,  lying  back  and  panting  wildly, 
shook  his  head  as  he  gazed  at  the  ceiling. 

"  Awright ;  try  an'  save  yourself  a  bit. 
Keep  yer  left  goin' — you  roasted  'im  good 
with  that ;  'e'll  want  a  yard  o'  plaster  to-night. 


104 

An'  when  e'  gits  leadin'  loose,  take  it  auf  an' 
give  him  the  right  straight  from  the  guard — 
if  you  know  the  trick.  Point  o'  the  jaw 
that's  for,  mind.  'Ave  a  cooler."  He  took  a 
mouthful  of  water  and  blew  it  in  a  fine  spray 
in  Neddy's  face,  wiped  it  down,  and  began 
another  overhead  fanning. 

"  Seconds  out  of  the  ring !"  called  the 
time-keeper. 

"  Go  it  my  lad  " — thus  a  whisper  from  be- 
hind— "  you  can  walk  over  'im  !"  And  Neddy 
felt  the  wet  sponge  squeezed  against  the 
back  of  his  neck,  and  the  cool  water  trickling 
down  his  spine 

"Time!" 

Neddy  was  better,  though  there  was  a 
worn  feeling  in  his  arm-muscles.  Patsy's  cut 
had  been  well  sponged,  but  it  still  bled,  and 
Patsy  meant  giving  Neddy  no  rest.  He 
rushed  at  once,  but  was  met  by  a  clean  right- 
hander, slap  on  the  sore  spot.  "  Bravo, 
Neddy  !"  came  a  voice,  and  the  company 
howled  as  before.  Patsy  was  steadied.  He 
sparred  with  some  caution,  twitching  the 
cheek  next  the  cut.  Neddy  would  not  lead 
(for  he  must  save  himself),  and  so  the  two 
sparred  for  a  few  seconds.  Then  Patsy 
rushed  again,  and  Neddy  got  busy  with  both 
hands.     Once  he  managed  to  get  the  right  in 


105 

from  the  guard  as  his  second  had  advised, 
but  not  heavily.  He  could  feel  his  strength 
Groins: — earlier  than  in  the  last  round — and 
Patsy  was  as  strong  and  determined  as  ever. 
Another  rush  carried  Neddy  against  the 
ropes,  where  he  got  two  heavy  body  blows 
and  a  bad  jaw-rattler.  He  floundered  to  the 
right  in  an  attempt  to  slip,  and  fell  on 
his  face.  He  rolled  on  his  side,  however, 
and  was  up  again,  breathless  and  unsteady. 
There  was  a  sickening  throbbing  in  the 
crown  of  his  head,  and  he  could  scarce  lift 
his  arms.  But  there  was  no  respite  ;  the 
other  lad  was  at  him  again,  and  he  was 
driven  across  the  ring  and  back,  blindly 
pushing  his  aching  arms  before  him,  while 
punch  followed  punch  on  nose,  ears,  jaws, 
and  body,  till  something  began  to  beat  inside 
his  head,  louder  and  harder  than  all  beside, 
.stunning  and  sickening  him.  He  could  hear 
the  crowd  roaring  still,  but  it  seemed  further 
off;  and  the  yells  of  "  That's  it,  Patsy  !  Now 
you're  got  'im  !  Keep  at  'im  !  Hout  'im 
this  time  !" — came  from  some  other  building 
close  by,  where  somebody  was  getting  a  bad 
licking.  Somebody  with  no  control  of  his 
legs,  and  no  breath  to  spit  away  the  blood 
from  his  nose  as  it  ran  and  stuck  over  his 
lips.     Somebody  praying   for  the  end  of  the 


io6 


three  minutes  that  seemed  three  hours,  and 
groaning  inwardly  because  of  a  lump  of  cold 
lead  in  his  belly  that  had  once  been  sausage- 
roll.  Somebody  to  whom  a  few  called — still 
in  the  other  building — "  Chuck  it,  Neddy  ; 
it's  no  good.  Why  don'cher  chuck  it?" 
while  others  said,  "  Take  'im  away,  tyke  'im 
away  !"  Then  something  hit  him  between 
the  eyes,  and  some  other  thing  behind  the 
jghead  ;  that  was  one  of  the  posts.  He  swung 
an  arm,  but  it  met  nothing  ;  then  the  other, 
and  it  struck  somewhere  ;  and  then  there  was 
a  bang  that  twisted  his  head,  and  hard 
boards  were  against  his  face.  Oh,  it  was 
bad,  but  it  was  a  rest. 

Cold  water  was  on  his  face,  and  somebody 
spoke.  He  was  in  his  chair  again,  and  the 
one-eyed  man  was  sponging  him.  "  It  was 
the  call  o'  time  as  saved  ye  then,"  he  said  ; 
"you'd  never  'a' got  up  in  the  ten  seconds, 
Y'aint  up  to  another  round,  are  ye  ?  Better 
chuck  it.  It's  no  disgrace,  after  the  way 
you've  stood  up."  But  Neddy  shook  his 
head.  He  had  got  thiough  two  of  the  three 
rounds,  and  didn't  mean  throwing  away  a 
chance  of  saving  the  bout. 

"  Awright,  if  you  won't,"  his  mentor  said. 
"  Nothink  like  pluck.  But  you're  no  good  on 
points — a      knock-out's      the      on'y     chance. 


107 

Nurse  yer  right,  an'  give  it  'im  good  on  the 
point.  'E'snone  so  fresh  'isself  ;  'e's  blowed 
with  the  work,  an'  you  pasted  'im  fine  when 
you  did  'it.  Last  thing,  just  before  'e  sent 
ye  down,  ye  dropped  a  'ot  'un  on  'is  beak. 
Didn't  see  it,  didjer  ?'.'  The  old  bruiser 
rubbed  vigorously  at  his  arms,  and  gave  him 
a  small,  but  welcome,  drink  of  water. 

"  Seconds  out  of  the  ring  ' 

The  one-eyed  man  was  gone  once  more, 
but  again  his  voice  came  from  behind. 
"  Mind — give  it  'im  'ard  and  give  it  'im  soon, 
an'  if  you  feel  groggy,  chuck  it  d'reckly.  If 
ye  don't,  I'll  drag  ye  out  by  the  slack  o'  yer 
trousis  an'  disgrace  ye." 

"  Time  !" 

Neddy  knew  there  was  little  more  than 
half  a  minute's  boxing  left  in  him — perhaps 
not  so  much.  He  must  do  his  best  at  once. 
Fatsy  was  showing  signs  of  hard  wear,  and 
still  blew  a  little  ;  his  nose  was  encouragingly 
crimson  at  the  nostrils,  and  the  cut  was  open 
and  raw.  He  rushed  in  with  a  lead  which 
Neddy  ducked  and  cross-countered,  though 
ineffectually.  There  were  a  few  vigorous 
exchanges,  and  then  Neddy  staggered  back 
from  a  straight  drive  on  the  mouth.  There 
was  a  shout  of  "  Patsy  !"  and  Patsy  sprang  in, 
right  elbow  all  a-jerk,  and  flung  in  the  left. 


io8 


Neddy  guarded  wildly,  and  banged  in  the 
right  from  the  guard.  Had  he  hit?  He  had 
felt  no  shock,  but  there  was  Patsy,  lying  on 
his  face. 

The  crowd  roared  and  roared  again.  The- 
old  pug  stuffed  his  chair  hastily  through  the 
ropes,  and  Neddy  sank  into  it,  panting,  with 
bloodshot  eyes.  Patsy  lay  still.  The  time- 
keeper watched  the  second  hand  pass  its  ten 
points,  and  gave  the  word,  but  Patsy  only 
moved  a  leg.     Neddy  Milton  had  won. 

"  Brayvo,  young  'un,"  said  the  old  fighter, 
as  he  threw  his  arm  about  Neddy's  waist, 
and  helped  him  to  the  dressing-room. 
"  Cleanest  knockout  I  ever  see — smack  on 
the  point  o'  the  jaw.  Never  thought  you'd 
'a'  done  it.  I  said  there  was  nothink  like 
pluck,  did'n'  I  ?  'Ave  a  wash  now,  an'  you'll 
be  all  the  better  for  the  exercise.  Give  us 
them  gloves — I'm  off  for  the  next  bout."  And 
he  seized  another  lad,  and  marched  him  out. 

"  'Ave  a  drop  o*  beer,"  said  one  of  Neddy's 
new-won  friends,  extending  a  tankard.  He 
took  it,  though  he  scarcely  felt  awake.  He 
was  listless  and  weak,  and  would  not  have 
moved  for  an  hour  had  he  been  left  alone. 
But  Patsy  was  brought  to,  and  sneezed  loudly, 
and  Neddy  was  hauled  over  to  shake  hands 
with  him. 


109 

"You  give  me  a  'ell  of  a  doin',  "  said 
Neddy,  "/never  thought  I'd  beat  you." 

"Beat  me?  well  you  ain't,  'ave  you? 
'Ow  ?" 

"  Knock-out,"  answered  several  at  once. 

"  Well  I'm  damned,'  said  Patsy  Beard.  .  .  . 

In  the  bar,  after  the  evening's  business, 
Neddy  sat  and  looked  wistfully  at  the  stout, 
red-faced  men  who  smoked  fourpenny  cigars 
and  drank  special  Scotch;  but  not  one 
noticed  him.  His  luck  had  not  come  after 
all.  But  there  was  the  second  round  of 
bouts,  and  the  final,  in  a  week's  time — per- 
haps it  would  come  then.  If  he  could  only 
win  the  final — then  it  must  come.  Mean- 
while he  was  sick  and  faint,  and  felt  doubt- 
ful about  getting  home.  Outside  it  was  rain- 
ing hard.  He  laid  his  head  on  the  bar  table 
at  which  he  was  sitting,  and  at  closing  time 
there  they  found  him  asleep. 


IN   BUSINESS 

There  was  a  great  effervescence  of  rumor 
in  Cubitt  Town  when  Ted  Munsey  came  into 
money.  Ted  Munsey,  commonly  alluded  to 
as  Mrs.  Munsey 's  'usband,  was  a  moulder 
with  a  regular  job  at  Moffat's  ;  a  large,  quiet 
man  of  forty-five,  the  uncomplaining  appur- 
tenance of  his  wife.  This  was  fitting,  for  she 
had  married  beneath  her,  her  father  having 
been  a  dock  time-keeper. 

To  come  into  money  is  an  unusual  feat  in 
Cubitt  Town  ;  a  feat,  nevertheless,  continu- 
ally contemplated  among  possibilities  by  all 
Cubitt  Towners;  who  find  nothing  else  in 
the  Sunday  paper  so  refreshing  as  the  para- 
graphs headed"  Windfall  for  a  Cabman"  and 
"  A  fortune  for  a  Pauper,"  and  who  cut  them 
out  to  pin  over  the  mantelpiece.  The  hand- 
some coloring  of  such  paragraphs  was  repon- 
sible  for  many  bold  flights  of  fancy  in  regard 
to  Ted   Munsey's  fortune  ;  Cubitt  Town,  left 

[HO] 


Ill 


to  itself,  being  sterile  soil  for  the  imagina- 
tion. Some  said  that  the  Munseys  had  come 
in  for  chests  packed  with  bank  notes,  on  the 
decease  of  one  of  Mrs.  Mnnsey's  relations,  of 
whom  she  was  wont  to  hint.  Others  put  it 
at  a  street  full  of  houses,  as  being  the  higher 
ideal  of  wealth.  A  few,  more  romantically 
given,  imagined  vaguely  of  ancestral  lands 
and  halls,  which  Mrs.  Munsey  and  her  fore- 
bears had  been  "  done  out  of  "  for  many  years, 
by  the  lawyers.  All  which  Mrs.  Munsey,  in 
her  hour  of  trumph,  was  at  little  pains  to  dis- 
count, although,  in  simple  fact,  the  fortune 
was  no  more  than  a  legacy  of  a  hundred 
pounds  from  Ted's  uncle,  who  had  kept  a 
public-house  in  Deptford. 

Of  the  hundred  pounds  Mrs.  Munsey  took 
immediate  custody.  There  was  no  guessing 
what  would  have  become  of  it  in  Ted's  hands  ; 
probably  it  would  have  been,  in  chief  part, 
irrecoverably  lent;  certainly  it  would  have 
gone  and  left  Ted  a  moulder  at  Moffatt's,  as 
before.  With  Mrs.  Munsey  there  was  neither 
hesitation  nor  difficulty.  The  obvious  use  of  a 
hundred  pounds  was  to  put  its  possessors 
into  business — which  meant  a  shop  ;  to  elevate 
them  socially  at  a  single  bound  beyond  the 
many  grades  lying  between  the  moulder  and 
the  small  tradesman.     Wherefore  the    Mun- 


112 


seys  straightway  went  into  business.  Being 
equally  ignorant  of  every  sort  of  shopkeep- 
ing,  they  were  free  to  choose  the  sort  they 
pleased;  and  thus  it  was  that  Mrs.  Munsey 
decided  upon  drapery  and  haberdashery, 
Ted's  contribution  to  the  discussion  being 
limited  to  a  mild  hint  of  green  grocery  and 
coals,  instantly  suppressed  as  low.  Nothing 
could  be  more  genteel  than  drapery,  and  it 
would  suit  the  girls.  General  chandlery, 
sweetstuff,  oil  and  firewood — all  these  were 
low,  comparatively.  Drapery  it  was,  and 
quickly  ;  for  Mrs.  Munsey  was  not  wont  to 
shilly-shally.  An  empty  shop  was  found  in 
Bromley,  was  rented,  and  was  stocked  as  far 
as  possible.  Tickets  were  hung  upon  every. 
thing,  bearing  a  very  large  main  figure  with 
a  very  small  three-farthings  beside  it,  and  the 
thing  was  done.  The  stain  of  moulding  was 
washed  from  the  scutcheon ;  the  descent 
thereunto  from  dock  time-keeping  was  re- 
deemed five-fold;  dock  time-keeping  itself 
was  left  far  below,  with  carpentering,  ship- 
wrighting,  and  engine-fitting.  The  Munseys 
were  in  business. 

Ted  Munsey  stood  about  helplessly  and 
stared,  irksomely  striving  not  to  put  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  which  was  low ;  any 
lapse  being  instantly  detected  by  Mrs.  Mun- 


H3 

sey,  who  rushed  from  all  sorts  of  unexpected 
places  and  corrected  the  fault  vigorously. 

"  I  didn't  go  for  to  do  it,  Marier,"  he 
explained  penitently.  "  It's  'abit.  I'll  get 
out  of  it  soon.  It  don't  look  well,  I  know, 
in  a  business  ;  but  it  do  seem  a  comfort, 
somehow." 

"Oh,  }rou  an'  your  comfort!  A  lot  you 
study  my  comfort,  Hedward!" — for  he  was 
Ted  no  more — "  a-toilin'  an'  a-moilin'  with 
everything  to  think  of  myself  while  you  look 
on  with  your  'ands  in  your  pockets.  Do  try 
and  not  look  like  a  stuck  ninny,  do  !"  And 
Hedward,  whose  every  attempt  at  help  or 
suggestion  had  been  severely  repulsed, 
slouched  uneasily  to  the  door,  and  strove  to 
look  as  business-like  as  possible. 

"  There  you  go  again,  stickin'  in  the  door- 
way an'  starin'  up  an'  down  the  street,  as 
t.hough  there  was  no  business  doin',"  there 
was  none,  but  that  might  not  be  confessed. 
"  D'y'  expect  people  to  come  in  with  you 
a-fillin'  up  the  door  ?  Do  come  in,  do  !  You'd 
be  better  out  of  the  shop  altogether/' 

Hedward  thought  so,  too,  but  said  nothing. 
He  had  been  invested  with  his  Sunday 
clothes  of  lustrous  black,  and  brought  into 
the  shop  to  give  such  impression  of  a  shop- 
walker as  he  might.     He    stood   uneasily  on 


ii4 

alternate  feet,  and  stared  at  the  ceiling,  the 
floor,  or  the  space  before  him,  with  an  un- 
happy sense  of  being-  on  show  and  not  know- 
ing what  was  expected  of  him.  He  moved 
his  hands  purposelessly,  and  knocked  things 
down  with  his  elbows  ;  he  rubbed  his  hair 
all  up  behind,  and  furtively  wiped  the  result- 
ing oil  from  his  hand  on  his  trousers  ;  never 
looking  in  the  least  degree  like  a  shop- 
walker. 

The  first  customer  was  a  very  small  child 
who  came  for  a  ha'porth  of  pins,  and  on 
whom  Hedward  gazed  with  much  interest 
and  respect,  while  Mrs.  Munsey  handed  over 
the  purchase  ;  abating  not  a  jot  of  his  appre- 
ciation when  the  child  returned,  later,  to 
explain  that  what  she  really  wanted  was  sew- 
ing cotton.  Other  customers  were  disap- 
pointingly few.  Several  old  neighbors  came 
in  from  curiosity,  to  talk  and  buy  nothing. 
One  woman  who  looked  at  many  things 
without  buying  was  discovered  after  her 
departure  to  have  stolen  a  pair  of  stockings  ; 
and  Hedward  was  duly  abused  for  not  keep- 
ing a  sharp  look-out  while  his  wife's  back  was 
turned.  Finally,  the  shutters  went  up  on  a 
day's  takings  of  three  and  sevenpence  farth- 
ing, including  a  most  dubious  threepenny  bit. 
But,  then,  as  Mrs  Munsey  said,  when  you  are 


n5 

in  business  you  must  expect  trade  to  vary ; 
and  of  course  there  would  be  more  customers 
when  the  shop  got  known  ;  although  Hed- 
ward  certainly  might  have  taken  the  trouble 
to  find  one  in  a  busier  thoroughfare.  Hed- 
ward  (whose  opinion  in  that  matter,  as  in 
others,  had  never  been  asked)  retired  to  the 
back-yard  to  smoke  a  pipe — a  thing  he  had 
been  pining  for  all  day;  but  was  quickly  re- 
called (the  pipe  being  a  clay)  upon  Mrs. 
Munsey's  discovering  that  the  act  could  be 
observed  from  a  neighbor's  window.  He 
was  continually  bringing  the  family  into  dis- 
grace, and  Mrs.  Munsey  despaired  aloud  over 
him  far  into  the  night. 

The  days  came  and  went,  and  trade  varied, 
as  a  fact,  very  little  indeed.  Between  three 
and  sevenpence  farthing  and  nothing  the 
scope  for  fluctuation  is  small,  and  for  some 
time  the  first  day's  record  was  never  ex- 
ceeded. But  on  the  fifth  day  a  customer 
bought  nearly  seven  shillings  worth  all  at 
once.  Her  husband  had  that  day  returned 
from  sea  with  money,  and  she,  after  months 
of  stint,  indulged  in  an  orgie  of  haberdashery 
at  the  nearest  shop.  Mrs.  Munsey  was  reas- 
sured. Trade  was  increasing  ;  perhaps  an 
assistant  would  be  needed  soon,  in  addition 
to  the  two  girls. 


n6 


Only  the  younger  of  the  girls,  by  the  bye, 
had  as  yet  taken  any  active  interest  in  the 
business  ;  Emma,  the  elder,  spending  much 
of  her  time  in  a  bedroom,  making  herself  un- 
presentable by  inordinate  blubbering.  This 
was  because  of  Mrs.  Munsey's  prohibition  of 
more  company-keeping  with  J'ck  Page.  Jack 
was  a  plumber,  just  out  of  his  lime — rather  a 
catch  for  a  moulder's  daughter,  but  impos- 
sible, of  course,  for  the  daughter  of  people  in 
business,  as  Emma  should  have  had  the 
proper  feeling  to  see  for  herself.  This  Emma 
had  not  ;  she  wallowed  in  a  luxury  of  woe, 
exacerbated  on  occasions  to  poignancy  by 
the  scoldings  and  sometimes  by  the  th limp- 
ings of  her  mar;  and  neglected  even  the 
select  weekly  quadrille  class,  membership 
whereof  was  part  of  the  novel  splendor. 

But  there  was  never  again  a  seven-shilling 
customer.  The  state  of  trade  perplexed  Mrs. 
Munsey  beyond  telling.  Being  in  business, 
one  must,  by  the  circumstance,  have  a  genteel 
competence;  this  was  an  elementary  axiom 
in  Cubitt  Town.  But  where  was  the  money? 
What  was  the  difference  between  this  and 
other  shops?  Was  a  screw  loose  anywhere  ? 
In  that  case  it  certainly  could  not  be  her 
fault;   wherefore  she  nagged  Hedward. 

One   day  a  polite   young   man   called   in   a 


U7 

large  pony-trap  and  explained  the  whole 
mystery.  Nobody  could  reasonably  expect 
to  succeed  in  a  business  of  this  sort,  who  did 
not  keep  a  good  stock  of  the  fancy  aprons 
and  lace  bows  made  by  the  firm  he  was 
charged  to  represent.  Of  course,  he  knew 
what  business  was,  and  that  cash  was  not 
always  free,  but  that  need  never  hinder 
transactions  with  him  ;  three  months'  credit 
was  the  regular  thing  with  any  respectable, 
well-established  business  concern,  and  in  three 
months  one  would  certainly  sell  all  the  fancy 
aprons  and  lace  bows  of  this  especial  kind 
and  price  that  one  had  room  for.  And  he 
need  scarcely  remind  a  lady  of  Mrs.  Munsey's 
business  experience  that  fancy  aprons  and 
lace  bows — of  the  right  sort — were  by  far  the 
most  profitable  goods  known  to  the  trade. 
Everybody  knew  that.  Should  they  say  a 
gross  of  each,  just  to  go  on  with?  No? 
Well,  then  half  a  gross.  These  prices  were 
cut  so  near  that  it  really  did  not  pay  to  split 
the  gross,  but  this  time,  to  secure  a  good 
customer,  he  would  stretch  a  point.  Mrs. 
Munsey  was  enlightened.  Plainly  the  secret 
of  success  in  business  was  to  buy  advan- 
tageously, in  the  way  the  polite  young  man 
suggested,  sell  at  a  good  price,  and  live  on 
the  profits,  merely  paying  over  the  remainder 


n8 


at  the  end  of  three  months.  Nothing  could 
be  simpler.  So  she  began  the  system  forth- 
with. Other  polite  young  men  called,  and 
further,  certain  profits  were  arranged  for  on 
similar  terms. 

The  weak  spot  in  the  plan  was  the  absence 
of  any  binding  arrangement  with  the  general 
public;  and  this  was  not  long  in  discovering 
itself.  Nobody  came  to  buy  the  fancy  aprons 
and  the  lace  bows,  tempting  as  they  might 
seem.  Moreover,  after  they  had  hung  a  week 
or  more,  Alice  reported  that  a  large  shop  in 
the  Commercial  Road  was  offering,  by  retail, 
aprons  and  bows  of  precisely  the  same  sort 
at  a  less  price  than  the  polite  young  man  had 
charged  for  a  wholesale  purchase.  Mrs. 
Munsey  grew  desperate,  and  Hedward's  life 
became  a  horror  unto  him.  He  was  set  to 
stand  at  the  door  with  a  fancy  apron  in  one 
hand  and  a  lace  bow  in  the  other,  and  capture 
customers  as  they  passed  ;  a  function  wherein 
he  achieved  detestable  failure  ;  alarming 
passing  women  (who  considered  him  danger- 
ously drunk)  as  greatly  as  his  situation  dis- 
tressed himself. 

Mrs.  Munsey  grew  more  desperate,  and 
drove  Hedward  to  the  rear  of  the  house,  with 
bitter  revilings.  Money  must  be  got  out  of 
the  stock  somehow.     That  a  shop  could  in 


ii9 

any  circumstances  be  unremunerative  puz- 
zled as  much  as  it  dismayed  her.  The  goods 
were  marked  down  to  low  prices — often  lower 
than  cost.  Still  Mrs.  Munsey  had  the  abid- 
ing conviction  that  the  affair  must  pay,  as 
others  did,  if  only  she  might  hold  out  long 
enough.  Hed ward's  suggestion  that  he 
should  return  to  the  moulding,  coming  and 
going  as  little  in  sight  as  possible,  she  re- 
pelled savagely.  "  A  nice  notion  you've  got 
o'  keepin'  up  a  proper  position.  You  ain't 
content  with  disgracin'  me  and  yourself  too, 
playin'  the  fool  in  the  shop  till  trade's  ruined 
an'  nobody  won't  come  near  the  place — an*  I 
don't  wonder  at  it.  .  .  You're  a  nice 
sort  of  'usband,  I  must  say.  What  are  you 
goin'  to  do  now,  with  the  business  in  this 
pretty  mess,  an'  your  wife  an'  children  ready 
to  starve?  What  are  yon  goin'  to  do? 
Where  are  you  goin'  to  turn  ?  That's  what  I 
want  to  know." 

"  Well,  I'm  a-thinkin'  it  out,  Marier,  in  a 
legal  point.  P'r'aps,  you  know,  my  dear — " 
"  Oh,  don't  dear  me.  I  'ate  a  fool." 
Marked  as  low  as  they  might  be,  none  of 
the  aprons  nor  the  bows  nor  the  towels  nor 
the  stockings  nor  any  other  of  the  goods 
were  bought — nevera  thing  beyond  a  ha'porth 
of  thread  or  a  farthing  bodkin.     Rent  had  to 


120 


.be  paid,  and  even  food  cost  money.  There 
was  a  flavor  of  rank  disappointment  about 
Saturday — the  pay  day  of  less  anxious  times  ; 
and  quarter-day,  when  all  these  polite  young 
men  would  demand  the  money  that  was  not  — 
that  day  was  coming,  black  and  soon.  Mrs. 
Munsey  grew  more  desperate  than  ever; 
sharp  of  feature,  and  aged.  Alone,  she  would 
probably  have  wept.  Having  Hedward  at 
hand,  she  poured  forth  her  bitterness  of  spirit 
upon  him  ;  till  at  last  he  was  nagged  out  of 
his  normal  stolidity,  and  there  came  upon  his 
face  the  look  of  a  bullock  that  is  harried  on 
all  hands  through  unfamiliar  streets. 

On  a  night  when,  from  sheer  weariness  of 
soul,  she  fell  from  clatter  toward  sleep,  of  a 
sudden  Hedward  spoke.  "  Marier — "  he 
said. 

"Well?" 

"You  ain't  give  me  a  kiss  lately.  Kiss  me 
now." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool.  I'm  sick  and  tired.  Go 
to  sleep,  if  you  can  sleep,  with  everything — " 

"  Kiss  me,  I  tell  you  !"  He  had  never  com- 
manded like  that  before.  She  marveled, 
feared  a  little,  and  obeyed. 

In  the  morning  when  she  awoke,  he  had 
already  gone  downstairs.  This  was  as  usual. 
When  she  followed,  however,  he  was  not  to 


121 


be  found  in  the  house.  The  shop  shutters 
had  been  taken  down,  and  the  windows  care- 
fully cleaned,  although  it  was  not  the  regular 
window-cleaning  day  ;  but  the  door  was  shut. 
On  the  sitting-room  table  were  two  papers, 
one  within  the  other.  The  first  was  written 
with  many  faults  and  smudges,  and  this  was 
how  it  ran  : 

"  the  deed  and  testiment  of  Ed.  Munsey 
this  is  to  cirtiffy  that  i"  make  over  all  my 
propperty  to  my  belovd  wife  stock  bisness 
and  furnitur  so  help  me  god  all  detts  i  keep  to 
pay  myself  and  my  wife  is  not  ansrable  for 
them  and  certiffy  that  I  O  U  Minchin  and 
co  9  pound  4\7i  Jones  and  son  6  pound  13X2 
and  settrer  all  other  detts  me  and  not  my 
wife  I  O  U 

"  Ed.  Munsey  " 

The  other  was  a  letter  : 

"  my  dear  wife  i  have  done  this  legle  dock- 
erment  after  thinking  it  out  it  will  make  you 
alrite  having  all  made  over  and  me  still  oawe 
the  detts  not  you  as  you  can  pull  round  the 
bisness  as  you  said  with  time  and  if  you  do 
not  see  me  again  will  you  pay  the  detts  when 
it  is  pull  round  as  we  have  been  allways  hon- 
nest  and  straght  i  should  wish   for  Emma  to 


122 

keep  co  with  Jhon  Page  if  cnn  be  mannaged 
he  might  be  shop  walker  and  you  will  soon 
all  be  rich  swels  i  know  so  no  more  from 
yours  affec  husband  Ed.  Munsey 

"  love  to  Emma  and  Alice  this  one  must  be 
burnt  keep  the  other" 


Near  the  papers  lay  Ted  Munsey 's  large 
silver  watch  and  chain,  the  silver  ring  that 
he  used  to  fasten  his  best  tie,  three  keys,  and 
a  few  coppers.  Upstairs  the  girls  began  to 
move  about.  Mrs.  Munsey  sat  with  her 
frightened  face  on  the  table. 


THE  RED  COW  GROUP 

The  Red  Cow  Anarchist  Group  no  longer 
exists.  Its  leading  spirit  appears  no  more 
among  his  devoted  comrades,  and  without 
him  they  are  ineffectual. 

He  was  but  a  young  man,  this  leading 
spirit  (his  name,  by-the-bye,  was  Sotcher), 
but  of  his  commanding  influence  among  the 
older  but  unlettered  men  about  him,  read 
and  judge.  For  themselves,  they  had  long 
been  plunged  in  a  beery  apathy,  neither  re- 
garding nor  caring  for  the  fearful  iniquities 
of  the  social  system  that  oppressed  them. 
A  Red  Cow  Group  they  had  always  been, 
before  the  coming  of  Sotcher  to  make  an- 
archists of  them  ;  foregathering  in  a  remote 
compartment  of  the  Red  Cow  bar,  reached 
by  a  side  door  in  an  alley,  a  compartment 
uninvaded  and  almost  undiscovered  by  any 
but  themselves,  where  night  after  night  they 
drank   their  beer   and    smoked    their    pipes, 

[123] 


124 

sunk  in  a  stagnant  ignorance  of  their  mani- 
fold wrongs.  During  the  day  Old  Baker  re- 
mained to  garrison  the  stronghold.  He  was 
a  long-bankrupt  tradesman,  with  invisible  re- 
sources and  no  occupation  but  this,  and  no 
known  lodging  but  the  Red  Cow  snuggery. 
There  he  remained  all  day  and  every  day, 
"holding  the  fort,"  as  he  put  it,  with  his 
nose,  a  fiery  signal  of  possession,  never  two 
feet  from  the  rim  of  his  pot  ;  while  Jerry 
Shand  was  carrying  heavy  loads  in  Columbia 
Market;  while  Gunno  Poison  was  running 
for  a  book-maker  in  Fleet  Street  ;  while 
Snorkey  was  wherever  his  instinct  took  him, 
doing  whatever  paid  best,  and  keeping  out  of 
trouble  as  long  as  he  could  ;  and  while  the 
rest  of  the  group — two  or  three — picked  a 
living  out  of  the  London  heap  in  ways  and 
places  unspecified.  But  at  evening  they 
joined  Old  Baker,  and  they  filled  their  snug- 
gery. 

Their  talk  was  rarely  of  politics,  and  never 
of  "  social  problems  ;"  present  and  immediate 
facts  filled  their  whole  field  of  contemplation. 
Their  accounts  were  kept,  and  their  refer- 
ences to  pecuniary  matters  were  always 
stated,  in  terms  of  liquid  measure.  Thus, 
fourpence  was  never  spoken  of  in  the  com- 
mon way  ;  it  was  a  quart,  and  a  quart  was  the 


125 

monetary  standard  of  the  community.  Even 
as  twopence  was  a  pint,  and  eightpence  was 
half-a-gallon. 

It  was  Snorkey  who  discovered  Sotcher, 
and  it  was  with  Snorkey  that  that  revolu- 
tionary appeared  before  the  Red  Cow  Group 
with  his  message  of  enlightenment.  Snor- 
key (who  was  christened  something  else  that 
nobody  knew  or  cared  about)  had  a  trick  of 
getting  into  extraordinary  and  unheard  of 
places  in  his  daily  quest  of  quarts,  and  he 
had  met  Sotcher  in  a  loft  at  the  top  of  a 
house  in  Berners  Street,  Shadwell.  It  was  a 
loft  where  the  elect  of  Anarchism  congre- 
gated nightly,  and  where  everybody  lectured 
all  the  others.  Sotcher  was  a  very  young 
Anarchist,  restless  by  reason  of  not  being 
sufficiently  listened  to,  and  glad  to  find  out- 
siders to  instruct  and  to  impress  with  a  full 
sense  of  his  sombre,  mystic  dare-devilry. 
Therefore  he  came  to  the  Red  Cow  with 
Snorkey,  to  spread  (as  he  said)  the  light. 

He  was  not  received  with  enthusiasm,  per- 
haps because  of  a  certain  unlaundered  aspect 
of  person  remarkable  even  to  them  of  the 
Red  Cow  Group.  Grease  was  his  chief  ex- 
terior characteristic,  and  his  thick  hair,  turn- 
ing up  over  his  collar,  seemed  to  have  lain 
for  long  unharried   of  brush  or  comb.     His 


126 


face  was  a  sebaceous  trickle  of  long  features, 
and  on  his  hands  there  was  a  murky  deposit 
that  looked  like  scales.  He  wore,  in  all 
weathers,  a  long  black  coat  with  a  rectangu- 
lar rent  in  the  skirt,  and  his  throat  he  clipped 
in  a  brown  neckerchief  that  on  a  time  had 
been  of  the  right  Anarchist  red.  But  no 
want  of  welcome  could  abash  him.  Here*, 
indeed,  he  had  an  audience,  an  audience  that 
did  not  lecture  on  its  own  account,  a  crude 
audience  that  might  take  him  at  his  own 
valuation.  So  he  gave  it  to  that  crude  audi- 
ence, hot  and  strong.  They  (and  he)  were 
the  salt  of  the  earth,  bullied,  plundered  and 
abused.  Down  with  everything  that  wasn't 
down  already.     And  so  forth  and  so  on. 

His  lectures  were  continued.  Every  night 
it  was  the  same  as  every  other,  and  each 
several  chapter  of  his  discourse  was  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  one  before.  Slowly  the  Red  Cow 
Group  came  round.  Plainly  other  people 
were  better  off  than  they  ;  and  certainly  each 
man  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  anybody 
else  was  more  deserving  than  himself. 

"  Wy  are  we  pore  ?"  asked  Sotcher,  lean- 
ing forward  and  jerking  his  extended  palm 
from  one  to  another,  as  though  attempting  a 
hasty  collection.  "  I  ask  you  straight,  wy 
are    we   pore  ?     Why   is   it,  my  f rien's,  that 


127 

awften  and  awften  you  find  you  ain't  got  a 
penny  in  yer  pocket,  not  for  to  git  a  crust 
o'  bread  or  'alf  a  pint  o'  reasonable  refresh- 
ment? 'Ow  is  it  that  'appens?  Agin  I  ask, 
'ow  ?" 

Snorkey,  with  a  feeling  that  an  answer  was 
expected  from  somebody,  presently  mur- 
mured, "  No  mugs,"  which  encouraged 
Gunno  Poison  to  suggest  "  Backers  all  stony- 
broke."  Jerry  Shand  said  nothing,  but 
reflected  on  the  occasional  result  of  a  day  on 
the  loose.  Old  Baker  neither  spoke  nor 
thought. 

"  I'll  tell  you,  me  frien's.  It's  'cos  o'  the 
rotten  state  o'  s'ciety.  VVy  d'you  allow  the 
lazy,  idel,  dirty,  do-nothing  upper  classes,  as 
they'call  'emselves,  to  reap  all  the  benefits  o' 
your  toil  wile  you  slave  an'  slave  to  keep  'em 
in  iukshry  an'  starve  yerselves?  Wy  don't 
you  go  an'  take  your  shares  o'  the  wealth 
lyin'  round  you  ?" 

There  was  another  pause.  Gunno  Poison 
looked  at  his  friends  one  after  another,  spat 
emphatically,  and  said  "  Coppers." 

"  Becos  o'  the  brute  force  as  the  privileged 
classes  is  'edged  theirselves  in  with,  that's 
all.  Becos  o'  the  paid  myrmidons  armed  an' 
kep'  to  make  slaves  o'  the  people.  Becos  o' 
the   magistrates  an'  p'lice.     Then  wy  not  git 


128 

rid  o'  the  magistrates  an'  p'lice?  They're  no 
good,  are  they  ?    'Oo  wants  'em  I  ask  ?    'Oo  ?" 

"  They  are  a  noosance,"  admitted  Snorke}', 
who  had  done  a  little  time  himself.  Me  was 
a  mere  groundling,  and  persisted  in  regard- 
ing the  proceedings  as  simple  conversation, 
instead  of  as  an  oration  with  pauses  at  the 
proper  places. 

"  Nobody  wants  'em — nobody  as  is  any 
good.  Then  don't  'ave  'em,  me  frien's — don't 
'ave  'em!  It  all  rests  with  you.  Don't 'ave 
no  magistrates  nor  p'lice,  nor  gover'ment, 
nor  parliament,  nor  monarchy,  nor  county 
council,  nor  nothink.  Make  a  clean  sweep 
of  'em.  Blow  'em  up.  Then  you'll  'ave  yer 
rights.  The  time's  comin',  I  tell  you.  It's 
comin',  take  my  word  for  it.  Now  you  toil 
an'  slave  ;  then  everybody'll  'ave  to  work 
w'ether  'e  likes  it  or  not,  and  two  hours'  work 
a  day'll  be  all  you'll  'ave  to  do." 

Old  Baker  looked  a  little  alarmed,  and  for 
a  moment  paused  in  his  smoking. 

"  Two  hours  a  day  at  most,  that's  all ;  an' 
all  yer  wants  provided  for,  free  an'  liberal." 
Some  of  the  group  gave  a  lickerish  look 
across  the  bar.  "  No  a'thority,  no  gover'- 
ment, no  privilege,  an'  nothink  to  interfere. 
Free  contrack  between  man  an'  man,  subjick 
to  free  revision  an'  change. 


129 

"  Wot's  that  ?"  demanded  Jerry  Shand,  who 
was  the  slowest  convert. 

"  Wy,  that,"  Sotcher  explained,  "  means 
that  everybody  can  make  wot  arrangements 
with  'is  feller-men  'e  likes  for  to  carry  on  the 
business  of  life,  but  nothink  can't  bind  you. 
You  chuck  over  the  arrangement  if  it  suits 
best." 

"Ah,"  said  Gunno  Poison  musingly,  rotat- 
ing his  pot  horizontally  before  him  to  stir  the 
beer  ;  '-  that  'ud  be  'andy  sometimes.  They 
call  it  welshin'  now." 

The  light  spread  fast  and  free,  and  in  a  few 
nights  the  Red  Cow  Group  was  a  very  prom- 
ising little  bed  of  anarchy.  Sotcher  was  at 
pains  to  have  it  reported  at  two  places  west 
of  Tottenham  Court  Road  and  at  another  in 
Dean  Street,  Soho,  that  at  last  a  comrade  had 
secured  an  excellent  footing  with  a  party  of 
the  proletariat  of  East  London,  hitherto 
looked  on  as  hopeless  material.  More,  that 
an  early  manifestation  of  activity  might  be 
expected  in  that  quarter.  Such  activity  had 
been  held  advisable  of  late,  in  view  of  certain 
extraditions. 

And  Sotcher's  discourse  at  the  Red  Cow 
turned,  lightly  and  easily,  toward  the  ques- 
tion  of    explosives.     Anybody    could    make 


130 

them,  he  explained  ;  nothing  simpler,  with 
care.  And  here  he  posed  at  large  in  the 
character  of  mysterious  desperado,  the 
wonder  and  admiration  of  all  the  Red  Cow 
Group.  They  should  buy  nitric  acid,  he  said, 
of  the  strongest  sort,  and  twice  as  much 
sulphuric  acid.  The  shops  where  they  sold 
photographic  materials  were  best  and  cheap- 
est for  these  things,  and  no  questions  were 
asked.  They  should  mix  the  acids,  and  then 
add  gently,  drop  by  drop,  the  best  glycerine, 
taking  care  to  keep  everything  cool.  After 
which  the  whole  lot  must  be  poured  into 
water,  to  stand  for  an  hour.  Then  a  thick, 
yellowish,  oily  stuff  would  be  found  to  have 
sunk  to  the  bottom,  which  must  be  passed 
through  several  pails  of  water  to  be  cleansed; 
and  there  it  was,  a  terrible  explosive.  You 
handled  it  with  care,  and  poured  it  on  brick- 
dust  or  drv  sand,  or  anything  of  that  sort 
that  would  soak  it  up,  and  then  it  could  be 
used  with  safety  to  the  operator. 

The  group  listened  with  rapt  attention, 
more  than  one  pot  stopping  half  way  on  its 
passage  moutliwards.  Then  Jerry  Shand 
wanted  to  know  if  Sotcher  had  ever  blown 
up  anything  or  anybody  himself. 

The  missionary  admitted  that  that  glory 
had  not  been  his.     "  I'm  one  o'  the  teachers, 


I3i 

me  frien's — one  o'  the  pioneers  that  goes  to 
show  the  way  for  the  active  workers  like  you. 
I  on'y  come  to  explain  the  principles  an*  set 
you  in  the  right  road  to  the  social  revolution, 
so  as  you  may  get  yer  rights  at  last.  It's  for 
you  to  act." 

Then  he  explained  that  action  might  be 
taken  in  two  ways;  either  individually  or  by 
mutual  aid  in  the  group.  Individual  work 
was  much  to  be  preferred,  being  safer ;  but 
a  particular  undertaking  often  necessitated 
co-operation.  But  that  was  for  the  workers 
to  settle  as  the  occasion  arose.  However, 
one  thing  must  be  remembered.  If  the  group 
operated,  each  man  must  be  watchful  of  the 
rest  ;  there  must  be  no  half  measures,  no  tim- 
orousness  ;  any  comrade  wavering,  temporiz- 
ing, or  behaving  in  any  way  suspiciously, 
must  be  straightway  suppressed.  There  must 
be  no  mistake  about  that.  It  was  desperate 
and  glorious  work,  and  there  must  be  desper- 
ate and  rapid  methods  both  of  striking  and 
guarding.  These  things  he  made  clear  in  his 
best  conspirator's  manner  ;  with  nods  and 
scowls  and  a  shaken  fore  finger,  as  of  one  ac- 
customed to  oversetting  empires. 

The  men  of  the  Red  Cow  Group  looked  at 
each  other,and  spat  thoughtfully.  Then  a  com- 
rade asked  what  had  better  be  blown  up  first. 


132 

Sotcher's  opinion  was  that  there  was  most 
glory  in  blowing  up  people,  in  a  crowd  or  at 
a  theatre.  But  a  building  was  safer,  as  there 
was  more  chance  of  getting  away.  Of  build- 
ings, a  public  office  was  probably  to  be  pre- 
ferred— something  in  Whitehall,  say.  Or  a 
bank — nobody  seemed  to  have  tried  a  bank; 
he  offered  the  suggestion  now.  Of  course 
there  were  not  many  public  buildings  in  the 
East  End,  but  possibly  the  group  would  like 
to  act  in  their  own  neighborhood  ;  it  would 
be  a  novelty  and  would  attract  notice;  the 
question  was  one  for  their  own  decision, 
independent  freedom  of  judgment  being  the 
right  thing  in  these  matters.  There  were 
churches,  of  course,  and  the  factories  of  the 
bloated  capitalist.  Particularly,  he  might 
suggest  the  gas-works  close  by.  There  was 
a  large  gasometer  abutting  on  the  street,  and 
probably  an  explosion  there  would  prove 
tremendously  effective,  putting  the  lights  out 
everywhere,  and  attracting  great  attention  in 
the  papers.     That  was  glory. 

Jerry  Shand  hazarded  a  remark  about  the 
lives  of  the  men  in  the  gas-works  ;  but  Sotcher 
explained  that  that  was  a  trivial  matter. 
Revolutions  were  never  accomplished  without 
bloodshed,  and  a  few  casual  lives  were  not  to 
be  weighed  in  the  balance  against  the  gloru 


133 

ous  consummation  of  the  social  upheaval. 
He  repeated  his  contention,  when  some 
weaker  comrade  spoke  of  the  chance  of  dan- 
ger to  the  operator,  and  repeated  it  with  a 
proper  scorn  of  the  soft-handed  pusillanimity 
that  shrank  from  danger  to  life  and  limb  in 
the  cause.  Look  at  the  glory,  and  consider 
the  hundredfold  vengeance  on  the  enemy  in 
the  day  to  come!  The  martyr's  crown  was 
his  who  should  die  at  the  post  of  duty. 

His  eloquence  prevailed  ;  there  were  mur- 
murs no  more.  "'Ere,  tell  us  the  name  of 
the  stuff  ngin,"  broke  out  Gunno  Poison,  re- 
solutely, feeling  for  a  pencil  and  paper. 
"  Blimy,  I'll  make  some  to-morrer." 

He  wrote  down  the  name  of  the  ingredi- 
ents with  much  spelling.  "  Thick,  yuller, 
oil}7  stuff,  ain't  it,  wot  you  make  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yus — an'  keep  it  cool." 

The  group  broke  up,  stern  and  resolute, 
and  Sotcher  strode  to  his  home  exultant,  a 
man  of  power. 

For  the  next  night  or  two  the  enthusiasm 
at  the  Red  Cow  was  unbounded.  There  was 
no  longer  any  questioning  of  principles  or 
action — every  man  was  an  eager  anarchist — 
strong  and  devoted  in  the  cause.  The  little 
chemical    experiment    was    going    on     well, 


134 

Gunno  Poison  reported,  with  confident  nods 
and  winks.  Sotcher  repeated  his  discourse, 
as  a  matter  of  routine,  to  maintain  the  gen- 
eral ardor,  which  had,  however,  to  endure  a 
temporary  check  as  the  result  of  a  delicate 
inquiry  of  Snorkey's,  as  to  what  funds  might 
be  expected  from  headquarters.  For  there 
were  no  funds,  said  Sotcher,  somewhat  sur- 
prised at  the  question. 

"Wot?"  demanded  Jerry  Shand,  opening 
his  mouth  and  putting  down  his  pipe  ;  "ain't 
we  goin'  to  got  nothink  for  all  this?" 

They  would  get  the  glory,  Sotcher  assured 
him,  and  the  conciousness  of  striking  a 
mighty  blow  at  this,  and  that,  and  the  other  ; 
but  that  was  all.  And  instantly  the  faces  of 
the  group  grew  long. 

"  But,"  said  Old  Baker,  "  I  thought  all  you 
blokes  always  got  somethink  from  the — the 
committee?" 

There  was  no  committee,  and  no  funds  ; 
there  was  nothing  but  glory,  and  victory,  and 
triumph,  and  the  social  revolution,  and  things 
of  that  kind.  For  a  little,  the  comrades 
looked  at  each  other  awkwardly,  but  they 
soon  regained  their  cheerfulness,  with  zeal 
no  whit  abated.  The  sitting  closed  with 
promises  of  an  early  gathering  for  the  next 
night. 


i35 

But  when  the  next  night  came  Sotcher  was 
later  than  usual.  "  'Ullo,"  shouted  Gunno 
Poison,  as  he  entered,  "  'ere  you  are  at.  last. 
We've  'ad  to  do  important  business  without 
you.  See,"  he  added  in  a  lower  tone,  "  'ere's 
the  stuff!"  And  he  produced  an  old  physic 
bottle  nearly  full  of  a  thick,  yellowish  fluid. 

Sotcher  started  back  half  a  pace,  and 
slightly  paled.  "  Don't  shake  it,"  he  whis- 
pered hoarsely.  "  Don't  shake  it,  for  Gawd's 
sake!  .  .  .  Wot — wotjer  bring  it 'ere  for, 
like  that?  It's — it's  awful  stuff,  blimy."  He 
looked  uneasily  about  the  group,  and  wiped 
his  forehead  with  the  back  of  his  hand.  "  I 
— I  thought  you'd  git  the  job  over  soon  as 
the  stuff  was  ready.     .  'Ere,  my  Gawd  !" 

he  squeaked  under  his  breath,  "  don't  put  it 
down  'ard  on  the  table  like  that.  It's  sich — 
sich  awful  stuff."  He  wiped  his  forehead 
again,  and,  still  standing,  glanced  once  more 
apprehensively  round  the  circle  of  impassive 
faces.  Then  after  a  pause,  he  asked,  with  an 
effort  :     "  Wot — wotjer  goin'  to  do  now  ?" 

"  Blow  up  the  bleed'n'  gasworks,  o' 
course,"  answered  Gunno  Poison,  compla- 
cently. "  'Ere's  a  penn'orth  o*  silver  sand, 
an'  a  'bacca  canister,  an'  some  wire,  an'  a  big 
cracker  with  a  long  touch-paper,  so  as  to 
stick  out  o'  the   canister-lid.     That  ougrht  to 


136 


set  it  auf,  oughtn't  it?  'Ere  you  pour  the 
stuff  over  the  sand,  doncher?  And  he  pulled 
out  the  cork  and  made  ready  to  mix. 

"  'Old  on — 'old  on — don't !  Wait  a  bit,  for 
Gawd's  sake  !"  cried  Sotcher,  in  a  sweat  of 
terror.  "  You — you  dunno  wot  awfid  stuff  it 
is — s'elp  me,  you  don't  !  You — you'll  blow 
us  all  up  if  you  don't  keep  it  still.  Y — you'll 
want  some — other  things.      I'll  go  an' — " 

But  Jerry  Shand  stood  grimly  against  the 
door.  "This  'ere  conspiracy  '11  'ave  to  be 
gawn  through  proper,"  he  said.  "  We  can't 
'ave  no  waverers  nor  blokes  wot  want  to 
clear  out  in  the  middle  of  it,  and  p'r'aps  go 
an'  tell  the  p'lice.  Them  sort  we  'as  to  sup- 
press, see?  There's  all  the  stuff  there,  me 
lad,  an'  you  know  it.  Wot's  more,  it's  you 
as  is  got  to  put  it  up  agin  the  gas-works  an' 
set  it  auf." 

The  hapless  Sotcher  turned  a  yellower 
pallor  and  asked  faintly  :  "  Me?     Wy  me?" 

"  All  done  reg'lar  and  proper,"  Jerry  re- 
plied, "  'fore  you  come.  We  voted  it — by 
ballot,  all  square.  If  you'd  'a'  come  earlier 
you'd  'a'  'ad  a  vote  ycrsclf." 

Sotcher  pushed  at  Jerry's  shoulder,  de- 
spairingly. "I  won't,  1  won't!"  he  gasped. 
"Lemme    <ro — it    ain't    fair — 1   wasn't    'ere — 


lemme  so ! 


137 

"  None  o'  yer  shovin',  young  man,"  said 
Jerry,  severely.  "  None  o'  }>er  shovin',  else  I'll 
'ave  to  punch  you  on  the  jore.  You're  a 
bleedin'  nice  conspirator,  you  are.  It's  pretty 
plain  we  can't  depend  on  you,  an'  you  know 
wot  that  means — eh?  Doncher?  You're  one 
o'  the  sort  as  'as  to  be  suppressed,  that's 
wot  it  means.  'Ere,  'ave  a  drink  o'  this 
'ere  beer,  an'  see  if  that  can't  put  a  little 
'art  in  ye.  You  got  to  do  it,  so  you  may  as 
well  do  it  cheerful.  Snorkey,  give  'im  a  drink." 

But  the  wretched  revolutionary  would  not 
drink.  He  sank  in  a  corner — the  furthest 
from  the  table  where  Gunno  Poison  was 
packing  his  dreadful  canister — a  picture  of 
stupid  affright. 

Presently  he  thought  of  the  bar — a  mere 
yard  of  counter  in  an  angle  of  the  room,  with 
a  screen  standing  above  it — and  conceived  a 
wild  notion  of  escape  by  scrambling  over. 
But  scarce  had  he  risen  ere  the  watchful  Jerry 
divined  his  purpose. 

"  'Old  'im,  Snorkey,"  he  said.  "  Keep  'im 
in  the  corner.  An'  if  'e  wont  drink  that  beer 
pour  it  over  'is  'ead." 

Snorkey  obeyed  gravely  and  conscien- 
tiously, and  the  bedraggled  Sotcher,  cowed 
from  protest,  whined  and  sobbed  desolately. 

When  all  was  ready,  Jerry  Shand  said  : 


138 

"  I  s'pose  it's  no  good  askin'  you  to  do  it 
willin'  like  a  man  ?" 

"  Oh,  let  me  go,  I — I  ain't  well — s'elp  me,  I 
ain't.  I — I  might  do  it  wrong — an' — an' — I'm 
a — a  teacher — a  speaker  ;  not  the  active 
branch,  s'elp  me.  Put  it  auf — for  to-night — 
wait  till  to-morrer.  I  ain't  well  an' — an* 
you're  very  'ard  on  me  !" 

"  Desp'rit  work,  desp'rit  ways,"  Jerry  re- 
plied, laconically.  "  You're  be'avin'  very 
suspicious,  an'  you're  rebellin' agin  the  orders 
o'  the  group.  There's  only  one  physic  for 
that,  ain't  there,  in  the  rules  ?  You're  got  to 
be  suppressed.  Question  is  'ow.  We'll  'ave 
to  kill  Mm  quiet  somehow,"  he  proceeded, 
turning  to  the  group.  Quiet  an'  quick.  It's 
my  belief  'e's  spyin'  for  the  p'lice,  an'  wants 
to  git  out  to  split  on  us.  Question  is  'ow  to 
do  for  'im  ?" 

Sotcher  rose,  a  staring  spectre.  He  opened 
his  mouth  to  call,  but  there  came  forth  from 
it  only  a  dry  murmur.  Hands  were  across  his 
mouth  at  once,  and  he  was  forced  back  into 
the  corner.  One  suggested  a  clasp-knife  at 
the  throat,  another  a  stick  in  his  neckerchief, 
1  wisted  to  throttling  point.  But  in  the  end 
it  was  settled  that  it  would  be  simpler,  and 
would  better  destroy  all   traces,  to  dispatch 


139 

him  in  the  explosion — to  tie  him  to  the  canis- 
ter, in  fact. 

A  convulsive  movement  under  the  men's 
hands  decided  them  to  throw  more  beer  on 
Sotcher's  face,  for  he  seemed  to  be  fainting. 
Then  his  pockets  were  invaded  by  Gunno 
Poison,  who  turned  out  each  in  succession. 
"  You  won't  'ave  no  use  for  money  where 
you're  goin',"  he  observed  callously  ;  "  be- 
sides, it  'ud  be  blowed  to  bits  an'  no  use  to 
nobody.  Look  at  the  bloke  at  Greenwich, 
'ow  'is  things  was  blowed  away.  'Ullo!  'ere's 
two  'arf-crowns  an'  some  tanners.  Seven  an' 
thrippence  altogether,  with  the  browns. 
This  is  the  bloke  wot  'adn't  got  no  funds. 
This'll  be  divided  on  free  an'  equal  principles 
to  'elp  pay  for  that  beer  you're  wasted. 
'Old  up,  ol'  man!  Think  o'  the  glory. 
P'r'aps  you're  all  right,  but  it's  best  to  be  on 
the  safe  side,  an'  dead  blokes  can't  split  to  the 
coppers.  An'  you  mustn't  forget  the  glory. 
You  'ave  to  shed  blood  in  a  revolution,  an'  a 
few  odd  lives  more  or  less  don't  matter — not 
a  single  damn.  Keep  your  eye  on  the  bleeed'n' 
glory  !  They'll  'ave  photos  of  you  in  the 
papers,  all  the  broken  bits  in  a  'eap,  fac-sim- 
iliar  as  found  on  the  spot.  Wot  a  comfort 
that'll  be  !" 

But  the  doomed  creature   was  oblivious — 


140 

prostrate — a  swooning  heap.  They  ran  a 
piece  of  clothes-line  under  his  elbows,  and 
pulled  them  together  tight.  They  then  hob- 
bled his  ankles,  and  took  him  among  them 
through  the  alley  and  down  the  quiet  street, 
singing  and  shouting  their  loudest  as  they 
went,  in  case  he  might  sufficiently  recover 
his  piowers  to  call  for  help.  But  he  did  not, 
and  there  in  the  shadow,  at  the  foot  of  the 
great  gasometer,  they  flung  him  down  with  a 
parting  kick  and  a  barbarous  knock  on  the 
head,  to  keep  him  quiet  for  those  few  neces- 
sary moments.  Then  the  murderous  canis- 
ter, bound  with  wire,  was  put  in  place  ;  the 
extruding  touch-paper  was  set  going  with  a 
match  ;  and  the  Red  Cow  Anarchists  disap- 
peared at  a  run,  leaving  their  victim  to  his 
fate.  Presently  the  policeman  on  that  beat 
heard  a  sudden  report  from  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  gas-works,  and  ran  to  see  what  it 
might  mean. 

The  next  morning  Alfred  Sotcher  was 
charged  at  the  Thames  Police  Court  as  a 
drunk  and  incapable.  He  had  been  found  in 
a  helpless  state  near  the  gas-works,  and  ap- 
peared to  have  been  tied  at  the  elbows  and 
ankles  by  mischievous  boys,  who  had  also,  it 
seemed,  ignited  a  cracker  near  by  where  he 


141 

lay.  The  divisional  surgeon  stated  that  he 
was  called  to  the  prisoner,  and  found  him 
tearful  and  incoherent,  and  smelling'  strongly 
of  drink.  He  complained  of  having  been 
assaulted  in  a  public-house,  but  could  give  no 
intelligible  account  of  himself.  A  canister 
found  by  his  side  appeared  to  contain  a  mix- 
ture of  sand  and  castor  oil,  but  prisoner  could 
not  explain  how  it  came  there.  The  magis- 
trate fined  him  five  shillings,  with  the  alter- 
native of  seven  days,  and  as  he  had  no  money 
he  was  removed  to  the  cells. 


ON   THE   STAIRS 

The  house  had  been  "  genteel."  When 
trade  was  prospering  in  the  East  End,  and 
the  ship-fitter  or  block-maker  thought  it.  no 
shame  to  live  in  the  parish  where  his  work- 
shop lay,  such  a  master  had  lived  here.  Now, 
it  was  a  tall,  solid,  well-bricked,  ugly  house, 
grimy  and  paintless  in  the  joinery,  cracked 
and  patched  in  the  windows,  where  the  front 
door  stood  open  all  day  long;  and  the 
womankind  sat  on  the  steps,  talking  of  sick- 
ness and  deaths  and  the  cost  of  things;  and 
treacherous  holes  lurked  in  the  carpet  of 
road-soil  on  the  stairs  and  in  the  passage. 
For  when  eight  families  live  in  a  house, 
nobody  buys  a  door-mat,  and  the  street  was 
one  of  those  streets  that  are  always  muddy. 
It  smelt,  too,  of  many  things,  none  of  them 
pleasant  (one  w;is  fried  fish)  ;  but  for  all  that 
it  was  not  a  slum. 

Three  flights  up,  a  gaunt  woman  with  bare 

[142] 


H3 

forearms  stayed  on  her  way  to  listen  at  a 
door  which,  opening,  let  out  a  warm,  fetid 
waft  from  a  close  sick-room.  A  bent  and 
tottering  old  woman  stood  on  the  threshold, 
holding  the  door  behind  her. 

"An*  is  'e  no  better  now,  Mrs.  Curtis?" 
the  gaunt  woman  asked,  with  a  nod  at  the 
opening. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head,  and  pulled 
the  door  closer.  Her  jaw  waggled  loosely 
in  her  withered  chaps:  "Nor  won't  be,  till 
'e's  gone."  Then  after  a  certain  pause,  "'E's 
goin',"  she  said. 

"  Don't  doctor  give  no  'ope?" 

"  Lor'  bless  ye,  I  don't  want  to  ast  no 
doctors,"  Mrs.  Curtis  replied,  with  something 
not  unlike  a  chuckle.  "  I've  seed  too  many 
on  'em.  The  boy's  a-goin',  fast;  I  can  see 
that.  An'  then  " — she  gave  the  handle 
another  tug,  and  whispered — "  he's  been 
called."  She  nodded  amain.  "  Three  seprit 
knocks  at  the  bed-head  las'  night;  an'  I  know 
what  that  means  !" 

The  gaunt  woman  raised  her  brows,  and 
nodded.  "  Ah,  well,"  she  said,"  we  all  on  us 
comes  to  it  some  day,  sooner  or  later.  An' 
it's  often  a  'appy  release." 

The  two  looked  into  space  beyond  each 
other,  the   elder    with    a   nod    and   a   croak. 


144 

Presently  the  other  pursued,  "  E's  been  a 
very  good  son,  ain't  'e  ?" 

"  Ay,  ay, — well  enough  son  to  me,"  re- 
sponded the  old  woman,  a  little  peevishly  ; 
"an'  I'll  'ave  'im  put  away  decent,  though 
there's  on'y  the  Union  for  me  after.  I  can 
do  that,  thank  Gawd  !"  she  added,  medita- 
tively, as  chin  on  fist  she  stared  into  the 
thickening  dark  over  the  stairs. 

"  When  I  lost  my  pore  'usband,"  said  the 
gaunt  woman,  with  a  certain  brightening,  "  I 
give  'im  a  'ansome  funeral.  'E  was  a  Odd 
Feller,  an'  I  got  twelve  pound.  I  'ad  a  oak 
caufin  an'  a  open  'earse.  There  was  a  ker- 
ridge  for  the  fam'ly  an'  one  for  'is  mates — 
two  'orses  each,  an'  feathers,  an'  mutes  ;  an' 
it  went  the  furthest  way  round  to  the  cimitry. 
4  VVotever  'appens,  Mrs.  Manders,'  says  the 
undertaker, '  you'll  feel  as  you're  treated  im' 
proper;  nobody  can't  reproach  you  over 
that.'  An'  they  couldn't.  'E  was  a  good 
'usband  to  me,  an'  I  buried  'im  respectable." 

The  gaunt  woman  exulted.  The  old, 
old  story  of  Manders's  funeral  fell  upon  the 
other  one's  ears  with  a  freshened  interest, 
and  she  mumbled  her  gums  ruminantly. 
"  Bob'll  'ave  a  'ansome  buryin,'  too,"  she  said. 
"  I  can  make  it  up,  with  the  insurance  money, 


145 

an'  this,  an'  that.     On'y  I  dunno  about  mutes. 
It's  a  expense." 

In  the  East  End,  when  a  woman  has  not 
enough  money  to  buy  a  thing  much  desired, 
she  does  not  say  so  in  plain  words  ;  she  says 
the  thing  is  an  "expense,"  or  a  "great  ex- 
pense." It  means  the  same  thing,  but  it 
sounds  better.  Mrs.  Curtis  had  reckoned 
her  resources,  and  found  that  mutes  would 
be  an  "  expense."  At  a  cheap  funeral  mutes 
cost  half-a-sovereign  and  their  liquor.  Mrs. 
Manders  said  as  much. 

"  Yus,  yus,  'arf-a-sovereign,"  the  old  woman 
assented.  Within,  the  sick  man  feebly  beat 
the  floor  with  a  stick.  "  I'm  a-comin',"  she 
cried  shrilly;  "  yus, 'arf-a-sovereign,  but  it's 
a  lot,  an'  I  don't  see  'ow  I'm  to  do  it — not  at 
present."  She  reached  for  the  door-handle 
again,  but  stopped  and  added,  by  after- 
thought, "  Unless  I  don't  'ave  no  plooms." 

"  It  'ud  be  a  pity  not  to  'ave  plooms. 
I  'ad—*' 

There  were  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  then  a 
stumble  and  a  testy  word.  Mrs.  Curtis 
peered  over  into  the  gathering  dark.  "  Is  it 
the  doctor,  sir?"  she  asked.  It  was  the 
doctor's  assistant ;  and  Mrs.  Manders  tramped 
up  to  the  next  landing  as  the  door  of  the  sick- 
room took  him  in. 


146 

For  five  minutes  the  stairs  were  darkerthan 
ever.  Then  the  assistant,  a  very  young  man, 
came  out  again,  followed  by  the  old  woman 
with  a  candle.  Mrs.  Manders  listened  in  the 
upper  dark.  "  He's  sinking  fast,"  said  the 
assistant.  "  He  must  have  a  stimulant.  Dr. 
Mansell  ordered  port  wine.  Where  is  it?" 
Mrs.  Curtis  mumbled  dolorously.  "I  tell 
you  he  must  have  it,"  he  averred  with  unpro- 
fessional emphasis  (his  qualification  was  only 
a  month  old).  "The  man  can't  take  solid 
food,  and  his  strength  must  be  kept  up  some- 
how. Another  day  may  make  all  the  differ- 
ence. Is  it  because  you  can't  afford  it?" 
"  It's  a  expense — sich  a  expense,  doctor,"  the 
old  woman  pleaded.  "  An'  wot  with  'arf- 
pints  o'  milk  an' — "  She  grew  inarticulate? 
and  mumbled  dismally. 

"  But  he  must  have  it,  Mrs.  Curtis,  if  it's 
your  last  shilling  ;  it's  the  only  way.  If  you 
mean  you  absolutely  haven't  the  money — " 
And  he  paused  a  little  awkwardly.  He  was 
not  a  wealthy  young  man — wealthy  young 
men  do  not  devil  for  East  End  doctors — but 
he  was  conscious  of  a  certain  haul  of  six- 
pences at  nap  the  night  before  ;  and,  being 
inexperienced,  be  did  not  foresee  the  career  of 
persecution  whereon  he  was  entering  at  his 
own   expense   and  of   his  own    motion.     He 


147 

produced  five  shillings.  "  If  you  absolutely 
haven't  the  money,  why — take  this  and  get  a 
bottle — good  ;  not  at  a  public-house.  But 
mind,  at  once.     He  should  have  had  it  before." 

It  would  have  interested  him,  as  a  matter 
of  coincidence,  to  know  that  his  principal  had 
been  guilty  of  the  self-same  indiscretion — 
even  the  amount  was  identical — on  that  land- 
ing the  day  before.  But,  as  Mrs.  Curtis  said 
nothing  of  this,  he  floundered  down  the  stair 
and  out  into  the  wetter  mud,  pondering 
whether  or  not  the  beloved  son  of  a  Con- 
gregational minister  might  take  full  credit 
for  a  deed  of  charity  on  the  proceeds  of  six- 
penny nap.  But  Mrs.  Curtis  puffed  her 
wrinkles,  and  shook  her  head  sagaciously  as 
she  carried  in  her  candle.  From  the  room 
came  a  clink  as  of  money  falling  into  a  tea- 
pot. And  Mrs.  Manders  went  about  her 
business. 

The  door  was  shut,  and  the  stair  a  pit  of 
blackness.  Twice  a  lodger  passed  down,  and 
up  and  down,  and  still  it  did  not  open.  Men 
and  women  walked  on  the  lower  flights,  and 
out  at  the  door,  and  in  again.  From  the 
street  a  shout  or  a  snatch  of  laughter  floated 
up  the  pit.  On  the  pavement  footsteps  rang 
crisper  and  fewer,  and  from  the  bottom 
passage  there   were  sounds  of   stagger  and 


148 

sprawl.  A  demented  old  cock  buzzed  divers 
hours  at  random,  and  was  rebuked  every 
twenty  minutes  by  the  regular  tread  of  a 
policeman  on  his  beat.  Finally,  somebody 
shut  the  street-door  with  a  great  bang,  and 
the  street  was  muffled.  A  key  turned  inside 
the  door  on  the  landing,  but  that  was  all.  A 
feeble  light  shone  for  hours  along  the  crack 
below,  and  then  went  out.  The  crazy  old 
clock  went  buzzing  on,  but  nothing  left  that 
room  all  night.  Nothing  that  opened  the 
door.     .     . 

When  next  the  key  turned,  it  was  to  Mrs. 
Manders's  knock,  in  the  full  morning  ;  and 
soon  the  two  women  came  out  on  the  land- 
ing together,  Mrs.  Curtis  with  a  shapeless 
clump  of  bonnet.  "  Ah,  'e's  a  lovely  corpse," 
said  Mrs.  Manders.  "  Like  wax.  So  was  my 
'usband." 

"  I  must  be  stirrin',"  croaked  the  old 
woman,  "  an'  go  about  the  insurance  an'  the 
measurin'  an'  that.     There's  lots  to  do." 

"  Ah,  there  is.  'Oo  are  you  goin'  to  'ave — 
Wilkins  ?  I  'ad  Wilkins.  Better  than  Kedge, 
/  think.  Kedge's  mutes  dresses  rusty,  an' 
their  trousis  is  frayed.  If  you  was  thinkin' 
of  'avin'  mutes — " 

"  Yus,  yus," — with  a  palsied  nodding — "  I'm 


149 

agoin'  to  'ave  mutes.  I  can  do  it  respectable, 
thank  Gawd  !  " 

"  And  the  plooms  ?" 

"  Ay,  yus,  and  the  plooms  too.  They  ain't 
sich  a  great  expense,  after  all." 


SQUIRE   NAPPER. 

I 

Bill  Napper  was  a  heavy  man  of  some- 
thing between  thirty-five  and  forty.  His 
moleskin  trousers  were  strapped  below  the 
knees,  and  he  wore  his  coat  loose  on  his  back, 
with  the  sleeves  tied  across  his  chest.  The 
casual  observer  set  him  clown  a  navvy,  but 
Mrs.  Napper  punctiliously  made  it  known 
that  he  was  "  in  the  paving;"  which  meant 
that  he  was  a  pavior.  He  lived  in  Canning 
Town,  and  was  on  a  foot-path  job  at  West 
Ham  (Allen  was  the  contractor),  when  he 
won  and  began  to  wear  the  nickname 
"  Squire." 

Daily  at  the  stroke  of  twelve  from  the 
neighboring  church,  Bill  Napper's  mates  let 
drop  rammer,  trowel,  spade  and  pick,  and 
turned  toward  a  row  of  basins,  tied  in  blue- 
and  red  handkerchiefs,  and  accompanied  of 

[150J 


i5i 

divers  tin  cans  with  smoky  bottoms.  Bill, 
himself,  looked  toward  the  street  corner  for 
the  punctual  Polly  bearing  his  own  dinner 
fresh  and  hot;  for  home  was  not  far,  and 
Polly,  being-  thirteen,  had  no  school  now. 

One  day  Polly  was  nearly  ten  minutes  late. 
Bill,  at  first  impatient,  grew  savage,  and 
thought  wrath  fully  on  the  strap  on  its  nail  by 
the  kitchen-dresser.  But  at  the  end  of  the  ten 
minutes  Polly  came,  bringing  a  letter  as  well 
as  the  basin-load  of  beef  and  cabbage.  A 
young  man  had  left  it,  she  said,  after  asking 
many  ill-mannered  questions.  The  letter  was 
addressed,  "  VV.  Napper,  Esq.,"  with  a 
flourish  ;  the  words,  "  By  hand,"  stood  in  the 
corner  of  the  envelope  ;  and  on  the  flap  at 
the  back  were  the  embossed  characters,  "  T. 
&  N."  These  things  Bill  Napper  noted 
several  times  over,  as  he  turned  the  letter 
about  in  his  hand. 

"  Seems  to  me  you'll  'ave  to  open  it  after 
all,"  said  one  of  Bill's  mates;  and  he  opened 
it,  setting  back  his  hat  as  a  preparation  to 
serious  study.  The  letter  was  dated  from 
Old  Jewry,  and  ran  thus: 

"  re  B.  Napper  deceased. 
"  Dear  Sir, — We   have  a   communication 


152 

in  this  matter  from  our  correspondents  at  Syd- 
ney, New  South  Wales,  in  respect  to  testa- 
mentary dispositions  under  which  you  benefit. 
We  shall  be  obliged  it  you  can  make  it  con- 
venient to  call  at  this  office  any  day  except 
Saturday  between  two  and  four. —  Your  obe- 
dient servants, 

Tims  &  Norton." 

The  dinner  hour  had  gone  by  before  the 
full  inner  meaning  had  been  wrested  from 
this  letter.  "  B.  Napper,  deceased,"  Bill  ac- 
cepted, with  a  little  assistance,  as  an  an- 
nouncement of  the  death  of  his  brother  Ben, 
who  had  gone  to  Australia  nearly  twenty 
years  ago,  and  had  been  forgotten.  "  Testa- 
mentary dispositions  "  nobody  would  tackle 
with  confidence,  although  its  distinct  sugges- 
tion of  biblical  study  was  duly  remarked. 
"  Benefit"  was  right  enough,  and  led  one  of 
the  younger  men,  after  some  thought,  to  the 
opinion  that  Bill  Napper's  brother  might  have 
left  him  something;  a  theory  instantlyaccepted 
as  the  most  probable,  although  some  thought 
it  foolish  of  him  not  to  leave  it  direct  instead 
of  authorizing  the  interference  of  a  lawyer, 
who  would  want  to  do  Bill  out  of  it. 

Bill  Napper  put  up  his  tools  and  went 
home.     There  the  missis  put  an  end  to  doubt 


153 

by  repeating  what  the  lawyer's  clerk  said  ; 
which  was  nothing  more  definite  than  that 
Bill  had  been  "  left  a  bit ;"  and  the  clerk  only 
acknowledged  so  much  when  he  had  satisfied 
himself,  by  sinuous  questionings,  that  he  had 
found  the  real  legatee.  He  further  advised 
the  bringing  of  certain  evidence  on  the  visit 
to  the  office.  Thus  it  was  plain  that  the 
Napper  fortunes  were  in  good  cnse,  for,  as 
"  a  bit  "  means  money  all  the  world  over, 
the  thing  was  clearly  no  worthless  keep- 
sake. 


II 


On  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  Bill 
Napper,  in  clean  moleskins  and  black  coat, 
made  for  Old  Jewry.  On  mature  considera- 
tion he  had  decided  to  go  through  it  alone. 
There  was  not  merely  one  lawyer,  which 
would  be  bad  enough,  but  two  of  them  in  a 
partnership  ;  and  to  take  the  missis,  whose 
intellects,  being  somewhat  flighty,  were 
quickly  divertible  by  the  palaver  of  which  a 
lawyer  was  master,  would  be  to  distract  and 
impede  his  own  faculties.  A  male  friend 
might  not  have  been  so  bad,  but  Bill  could 
not  call  to  mind  one  quite  cute  enough  to  be 


154 

of  any  use,  and  in  any  case  such  a  friend 
would  have  to  be  paid  for  the  loss  of  his  day's 
work.  Moreover,  he  might  imagine  himself 
to  hold  a  sort  of  interest  in  the  proceeds.  So 
Bill  Napper  went  alone. 

Having  waited  the  proper  time  without 
the  bar  in  the  clerk's  office,  he  was  shown 
into  a  room  where  a  middle-aged  man  sat  at 
a  writing-table.  There  was  no  other  lawyer 
to  be  seen.  This  was  a  stratagem  for  which 
Bill  Napper  was  not  prepared.  He  looked 
suspiciously  about  the  room,  but  without 
discovering  anything  that  looked  like  a  hid- 
ing-place. Plainly  there  were  two  lawyers, 
because  their  names  were  on  the  door  and  on 
the  letter  itself  ;  and  the  letter  said  we.  Why 
one  should  hide  it  was  hard  to  guess,  unless 
it  were  to  bear  witness  to  some  unguarded 
expression.  Bill  Napper  resolved  to  speak 
little,  and  not  loud. 

The  lawyer  addressed  him  affably,  inviting 
him  to  sit.  Then  he  asked  to  see  the  papers 
that  Bill  had  brought.  These  were  an  old 
testimonial  reciting  that  Bill  had  been  em- 
ployed "  with  his  brother  Benjamin  "  as  a  boy 
in  a  brick-field,  and  had  given  satisfaction  ;  a 
letter  from  a  parish  guardian,  the  son  of  an 
old  employer  of  Bill's  father,  certifying  that 
Bill    was    his  father's  son  and  his    brother's 


155 

brother  ;  copies  of  the  birth  registry  of  both 
Bill  and  his  brother,  procured  that  morning; 
and  a  letter  from  Australia,  the  last  word 
from  Benjamin,  dated  eighteen  years  back. 
These  Bill  produced  in  succession,  keeping  a 
firm  grip  on  each  as  he  placed  it  beneath  the 
lawyer's  nose.  The  lawyer  behaved  some- 
what testily  under  this  restraint,  but  Bill 
knew  better  than  to  let  the  papers  out  of  his 
possession,  and  would  not  be  done. 

When  he  had  seen  all—"  Well,  Mr.  Nap- 
per,"  said  the  lawyer,  rather  snappishly  (ob- 
viously he  was  balked),  "  these  things  seem 
all  right,  and  with  the  inquiries  I  have 
already  made  I  suppose  I  may  proceed  to 
pay  you  the  money.  It  is  a  legacy  of  three 
hundred  pounds.  Your  brother  was  married, 
and  I  believe  his  business  and  other  property 
goes  to  his  wife  and  children.  The  money  is 
intact,  the  estate  paying  legacy  duty  and  ex- 
penses. In  cases  of  this  sort  there  is  some- 
times an  arrangement  for  the  amount  to  be 
paid  a  little  at  a  time  as  required  ;  that,  how- 
ever, I  judge,  would  not  be  an  arrangement 
to  please  you.  I  hope,  at  any  rate,  you  will 
be  able  to  invest  the  money  in  a  profitable 
way.     I  will  draw  a  check." 

Three   hundred   pounds   was    beyond    Bill 
Napper's  wildest  dreams.     But  he  would  not 


1 56 

be  dazzled  out  of  his  caution.  Presently  the 
lawyer  tore  the  check  from  the  book  and 
pushed  it  across  the  table  with  another  paper. 
He  offered  Bill  a  pen,  pointing  with  his  other 
hand  at  the  bottom  of  the  second  paper,  and 
paying,  "  This  is  the  receipt.  Sign  just  there, 
please." 

Bill  took  up  the  check  but  made  no  move- 
ment toward  the  pen.  "Receipt?"  he 
grunted  softly  ;  "  receipt,  wot  for?  I  ain't 
'ad  no  money." 

"  There's  the  check  in  your  hand,  the  same 
thing.  It's  an  order  to  the  bank  to  hand  you 
the  amount — the  usual  way  of  paying  money 
in  business  affairs.  If  you  would  rather  have 
the  money  paid  here,  I  can  send  a  clerk  to  the 
bank  to  get  it.     Give  me  the  check." 

But  again  Bill  was  not  to  be  done.  The 
lawyer,  finding  him  sharper  than  he  expected, 
now  wanted  to  get  this  tricky  piece  of  paper 
back.  So  Bill  only  grinned  at  him,  keeping 
a  good  hold  of  the  check.  The  lawyer  lost 
his  temper.  "  Why,  damn  it,"  he  said, 
"you're  a  curious  person  to  deal  with.  D'ye 
want  the  money  and  the  check  too?" 

He  rang  a  bell  twice,  and  a  clerk  appeared. 
"  Mr.  Dixon,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  I  have  given 
this  person  a  check  for  three  hundred  pounds. 
Just  take  him  round  to  the  bank,  and  get  it 


157 

cashed.  Let  him  sign  the  receipt  at  the  bank. 
I  suppose,"  he  added,  turning  to  Bill,  "  that 
you  won't  object  to  giving  a  receipt  when 
you  get  the  money,  eh  ?" 

Bill  Napper,  conscious  of  his  victory,  ex- 
pressed his  willingness  to  do  the  proper  thing 
at  the  proper  time,  and  went  out  with  the 
clerk.  At  the  bank  there  was  little  difficulty, 
except  at  the  clerk's  advice  to  take  the  money 
chiefly  in  notes,  which  instantly  confirmed 
Bill  in  a  determination  to  accept  nothing  but 
gold.  When  all  was  done,  and  the  three 
hundred  sovereigns,  carefully  counted  over 
for  the  third  and  fourth  time,  were  stowed  in 
small  bags  about  his  person,  Bill,  much 
relieved  after  his  spell  of  watchfulness,  in- 
sisted on  standing  the  clerk  a  drink. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "  all  you  City  lawyers  an' 
clurks  are  pretty  bleed'n'  sharp,  I  know,  but 
you  ain't  done  me,  an'  /don't  bear  no  malice. 
'Ave  wot  you  like — 'ave  wine  or  a  six  o'  Irish 
— I  ain't  goin'  to  be  stingy.  I'm  goin'  to  do 
it  open  an'  free,  an'  set  a  example  to  men  of 
property." 


Ill 


Bill  Napper  went  home  in  a  hansom,  order- 
ing a  barrel  of  beer  on  the  way.     One  of  the 


i58 

chief  comforts  of  affluence  is  that  you  may 
have  beer  in  by  the  barrel  ;  for  then  Sundays 
and  closing  times  vex  not,  and  you  have  but 
to  reach  the  length  of  your  arm  for  another 
pot  whenever  moved  thereunto.  Nobody  in 
Canning  Town  had  beer  by  the  barrel  except 
the  tradesmen,  and  for  that  Bill  had  long 
envied  the  man  who  kept  shop.  And  now, 
at  his  first  opportunity,  he  bought  a  barrel  of 
thirty-six  gallons. 

Once  home  with  the  news,  and  Canning 
Town  was  ablaze.  Bill  Napper  had  come  in 
for  three  thousand,  thirty  thousand,  three 
hundred  thousand — any  number  of  thousands 
that  were  within  the  compass  of  the  gossip's 
command  of  enumeration.  Bill  Napper  was 
called  "  W.  Napper,  Esq." — he  was  to  be 
knighted — he  was  a  long-lost  baronet — any- 
thing. Bill  Napper  came  home  in  a  han- 
som— a  brougham — a  state  coach. 

Mrs.  Napper  went  that  very  evening  to  the 
Grove  at  Stratford  to  buy  silk  and  satin, 
green,  red  and  yellow — cutting  her  neigh- 
bors dead,  right  and  left.  And  by  the  next 
morning  tradesmen  had  sent  circulars  and 
samples  of  goods.  Mrs.  Napper  was  for 
taking  a  proper  position  in  society,  and  a 
house  in  a  fashionable  part — Barking  Road, 
for  instance,  or  even  East  India  Road,  Poplar ; 


»59 

but  Bill  would  none  of  such  foolishness.  He 
wasn't  proud,  and  Canning  Town  was  quite, 
good  enough  for  him.  This  much,  though, 
he  conceded,  that  the  family  should  take  a 
whole  house  of  five  rooms  in  the  next  street, 
instead  of  the  two  rooms  and  a  cellule  up- 
stairs now  rented. 

That  morning  Bill  lit  his  pipe,  stuck  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  strolled  as  far  as 
his  job.  "  Wavo,  squire,"  shouted  one  of  the 
men  as  he  approached.  "  'Ere  comes  the 
bleed'n'  toff,"  remarked  another. 

"'Tcheer  'tcheer,  mates,"  Bill  responded, 
calmly  complacent.  "  I'm  again'  to  wet  it." 
And  all  the  fourteen  men  left  their  paving  for 
the  beer-house  close  by.  The  foreman  made 
some  demur,  but  was  helpless,  and  ended  by 
coming  himself.  "  Now  then,  gaffer,"  said 
Bill,  "none  o'  your  sulks.  No  one  ain't 
agoin'  to  stand  out  of  a  drink  o'  mine — unless 
'e  wants  to  fight.  As  for  the  job — damn  the 
job!  I'd  buy  up  fifty  jobs  like  that  'ere  and 
not  stop  for  the  change.  You  send  the 
guv'nor  to  me  if  V  says  anythink ;  unner- 
stand  ?  You  send  'im  to  me."  And  he  laid 
hands  on  the  foreman,  who  was  not  a  big  man, 
and  hauled  him  after  the  others. 

They  wetted  it  for  two  or  three  hours, 
from  many  quart  pots.     Then  there  appeared 


i6o 


between  the  swing-  doors  the  wrathful  face 
of  the  guv'nor. 

The  guv'nor's  position  was  difficult.  He 
was  only  a  small  master,  and  but  a  few  years 
back  had  been  a  working  mason.  This  de- 
serted job  was  his  first  for  the  parish,  and 
by  contract  he  was  bound  to  end  it  quickly 
under  penalty.  Moreover,  he  much  desired 
something  on  account  that  week,  and  must 
stand  well  with  the  vestry.  On  the  other 
hand,  this  was  a  time  of  strikes,  and  the  air 
was  electrical.  Several  large  and  successful 
movements  had  quickened  a  spirit  of  restless- 
ness in  the  neighborhood,  and  no  master  was 
sure  of  his  men.  Some  slight  was  fancied, 
something  was  not  done  as  it  should  have 
been  done  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
workshop,  and  there  was  a  strike,  picketing, 
and  bashing.  Now,  the  worst  thing  that 
could  have  happened  to  the  guv'nor  at  this 
moment  was  one  of  those  tiny,  unrecorded 
strikes  that  were  bursting  out  weekly  and 
daily  about  him,  with  the  picketing  of  his 
two  or  three  jobs.  Furious,  therefore,  as  he 
was,  he  dared  not  discharge  every  man  on 
the  spot.  So  he  stood  in  the  door,  and  said  : 
"  Look  here,  I  won't  stand  this  sort  of  thing 
— it's  a  damn  robbery.     I'll — " 

"  That's   all   right,   ol'   cock,"   roared  Bill 


161 


Napper,  reaching  toward  theguv'nor.  "  You 
come  'an  'ave  a  tiddley.  I'm  a  bleed'n'  mil- 
lionaire meself  now,  but  I  ain't  proud. 
What,  you  won't?" — for  the  guv'nor,  unen- 
thusiastic,  remained  at  the  door — "  You're  a 
sulky  old  bleeder.  These  'ere  friends  o' 
mine  are  'avin'  'arf  a  day  auf  at  my  expense  ; 
unnerstand  ?  My  expense.  I'm  a-payin'  for 
their  time,  if  you  dock  'm  ;  an'  I  can  give  you 
a  bob,  me  fine  feller,  if  you're  'ard  up.     See?" 

The  guv'nor  addressed  himself  to  the  fore- 
man. "  What's  the  meaning  o'  this,  Walker  ?" 
he  said.     "  What  game  d'ye  call  it?" 

Bill  Napper,  whom  a  succession  of  pots  had 
made  uproarious,  slapped  the  foreman  vio- 
lently on  the  shoulder.  "  This  'ere's  the 
gaffer,"  he  shouted.  "  'E's  all  right.  'E 
come  'ere  'cos  'e  couldn't  'elp  'isself.  I  made 
im  come,  forcible.  Don't  you  bear  no  spite 
agin'  the  gaffer,  d'y'ear  ?  'E's  my  mate,  is  the 
gaffer  ;  an'  I  could  buy  you  up,  forty  times, 
s'elp  me — but  I  ain't  proud.  An'  you're  a 
bleed'n'  gawblimy  slackbaked  .     .     .  " 

"  Well,"  said  the  guv'nor  to  the  assembled 
company,  but  still  ignoring  Bill,  "don't  you 
think  there's  been  about  enough  of  this  ?" 

A  few  of  the  men  glanced  at  one  another, 
and  one  or  two  rose.  "  Awright,  guv'nor,"' 
said  one,  "  we're  auf."     And  two  more  echoci, 


1 62 


"Awright,  guv'nor,"  and  began  to  move 
away. 

"Ah!"  said  Bill  Nappcr,  with  disgust,  as 
he  turned  to  finish  his  pot,  "you're  a  blasted 
nigger-driver,  you  are.  An'  a  sulky  beast," 
he  ridded  as  he  set  the  pot  down.  "  Never 
mind,"  he  pursued,  "  I'm  awright,  an'  I  ain't 
a  'arf-paid  kerb- whacker  no  more,  under 
you." 

"  You  was  a  damn  sight  better  kerb- 
whacker  than  you  are  a  millionaire,"  the 
guv'nor  retorted,  feeling  safer  now  that  his 
men  were  getting  back  to  work. 

"  None  o'  your  lip,"  replied  Bill,  rising  and 
reaching  for  a  pipe  spill ;  "none  o' your  lip, 
you  work'us  stone-breaker."  Then,  turning 
with  a  sudden  access  of  fury,  "  I'll  knock  yer 
face  off,  blimy!"  he  shouted,  and  raised  his 
fist. 

"  Now,  then,  none  o'  that  here,  please," 
cried  the  landlord  from  behind  the  bar;  unto 
whom  Bill  Napper,  with  all  his  wonted 
obedience  in  that  quarter,  answered  only, 
"  All  right,  guv'nor,"  and  subsided. 

Left  alone,  he  soon  followed  the  master 
pavior  and  his  men  through  the  swing  doors 
and  so  went  home.  In  his  own  street,  observ- 
ing two  small  boys  in  the  prelusory  stages  of 
a  fight,  he  put  up  sixpence  by  way  of  stakes, 


163 

and  supervised  the  battle  from  the  seat 
afforded  by  a  convenient  window-sill.  After 
that  he  bought  a  morning-  paper,  and  lay 
upon  his  bed  to  read  it,  with  a  pipe  and  a 
jug  ;  for  he  was  begining  a  life  of  leisure  and 
comfort,  wherein  every  day  should  be  a 
superior  Sunday. 


IV 


Thus  far  the  outward  and  visible  signs  of 
the  Napper  wealth  were  these  ;  the  separate 
house  ;  the  barrel  of  beer  ;  a  piano — not 
bought  as  a  musical  instrument,  but  as  one  of 
the  visible  signs  ;  a  daily  paper,  also  primarily 
a  sign  ;  the  bonnets  and  dresses  of  the  missis; 
and  the  perpetual  possession  of  Bill  Napper 
by  a  varying  degree  of  fuddlement.  An  in- 
ward and  dissembled  sign  was  a  regiment, 
continually  reinforced,  of  mostly  empty 
bottles,  in  a  cupboard  kept  sacred  by  the 
missis.  And  the  faculties  of  that  good  lady 
herself  experienced  a  fluctuating  confusion 
from  causes  not  always  made  plain  to  Bill; 
for  the  money  was  kept  in  the  bedroom  chest 
of  drawers,  and  it  was  easy  to  lay  hands  on 
a  half-sovereign  as  required  without  unneces- 
sary disturbance. 


164 

Now  and  again  Bill  Napper  would  dis- 
cuss the  abstract  question  of  entering  upon 
some  investment  or  business  pursuit.  Land 
had  its  advantages  ;  great  advantages  ;  and  he 
had  been  told  that  it  was  very  cheap  just 
now,  in  some  places.  Houses  were  good, 
too,  and  a  suitable  possession  for  a  man  of 
consideration.  Not  so  desirable  on  the  whole, 
however,  as  land.  You  bought  your  land 
and — 'Well  there  it  was,  and  you  could  take 
things  easily.  But  with  houses  there  was 
rent  to  collect,  and  repairs  to  see  to  and  so 
forth.  It  was  a  vastly  paying  thing  for  any 
man  with  capital  to  be  a  merchant  ;  but  there 
was  work  even  in  that,  and  you  had  to  be 
perpetually  on  guard  against  sharp  chaps  in 
the  City.  A  public-house,  suggested  by  one 
of  his  old  mates  on  the  occasion  of  wetting  if, 
was  out  of  the  question.  There  was  tick,  and 
long  hours,  and  a  sharp  look-out,  and  al! 
kinds  of  trouble,  which  a  man  with  money 
would  be  a  fool  to  encounter.  Altogether, 
perhaps,  land  seemed  to  be  the  thing  ; 
although  there  was  no  need  to  bother  now, 
and  plenty  of  time  to  turn  things  over,  even 
if  the  matter  were  worth  pondering  at  al!, 
when  it  was  so  easy  for  a  man  to  live  on  his 
means.  After  nil,  to  take  your  boots  off,  and 
lie  on  the  bed  with  a  pipe  and  a  pot  and  the 


165 

paper  was  very  comfortable,  and  you  could 
always  stroll  out  and  meet  a  mate,  or  bring 
him  in  when  so  disposed. 

Of  an  evening  the  Albert  Music  Hall  was 
close  at  hand,  and  the  Queen's  not  very  far- 
away. And  on  Sundays  and  Saturday  after- 
noons, Bill  would  often  take  a  turn  down  by 
the  dock  gates,  or  even  in  Victoria  Park,  or 
Mile  End  Waste,  where  there  were  speakers 
of  all  sorts.  At  the  dock  gates  it  was  mostly 
Labor  and  Anarchy,  but  at  the  other  places 
there  was  a  fine  variety  ;  you  could  always 
be  sine  of  a  few  minutes  of  Teetotalism,  Evan- 
gelism, Atheism,  Republicanism,  Salvation- 
ism,  Socialism,  Anti- Vaccinationists,  and 
Social  Purity,  with  now  and  again  some  Mor- 
monism  or  another  curious  exotic.  Most  of 
the  speakers  denounced  something,  and  if 
the  denunciations  of  one  speaker  were  not 
sufficiently  picturesque  and  lively,  you  passed 
on  to  the  next.  Indeed  you  might  always 
judge  afar  off  where  the  best  denouncing  was 
going  on,  by  the  size  of  the  crowds,  at  least 
until  the  hat  went  round. 

It  was  at  Mile  End  Waste  that  a  good 
notion  occurred  to  Bill  Napper.  He  had 
always  vastly  admired  the  denunciations  of 
one  speaker — a  little  man,  shabbier,  if  any- 
thing, than  most  of  the   others,  and   surpass- 


1 66 


ingly  tempestuous  of  antic.  He  was  an  un- 
attached orator,  not  confining  himself  to  any 
particular  creed,  but  denouncing  whatever 
seemed  advisable,  considering  the  audience 
and  circumstances.  He  was  always  denounc- 
ing something  somewhere,  and  was  ever  in  a 
crisis  that  demanded  the  circulation  of  a  hat. 
Bill  esteemed  this  speaker  for  his  versatility 
as  well  as  for  the  freshness  of  his  abuse,  and 
Bill's  sudden  notion  was  to  engage  him  for 
private  addresses. 

The  orator  did  not  take  kindly  to  the  pro- 
posal at  first,  strongly  suspecting  something 
in  the  nature  of  "  guy  "  or  "  kid  ;"  but  a  seri- 
ous assurance  of  a  shilling  for  an  occasional 
hour  and  the  payment  of  one  in  advance 
brought  him  over.  After  this  Squire  Napper 
never  troubled  to  go  to  Mile  End  Waste. 
He  sat  at  ease  in  his  parlor,  with  his  pot  on 
tlie  piano,  while  the  orator,  with  another  pot 
on  the  mantelpiece,  stood  up  and  denounced 
to  order.  "  Tip  us  the  Teetotal  an'  Down 
with-the-Public-'Ouse,"  Bill  would  request, 
and  the  orator  (his  name  was  Minns)  would 
oblige  in  that  line  till  most  of  the  strong 
phrases  had  run  out,  and  had  begun  to  recur. 
Then  Bill  would  say,  "  Now  come  the  Rights 
o'  Labor  caper."  Whereupon  Minns  would 
take   a  pull  at  the    pot,  and  proceed  to  de- 


167 

nounce  Capital,  Bill  Napper  applauding  or 
groaning  at  the  pauses  provided  for  those 
purposes.  And  so  on  with  whatever  subjects 
appealed  to  the  patron's  fancy.  It  was  a 
fancy  that  sometimes  put  the  orator's  inven- 
tion to  grievous  straits  ;  but  for  Bill  the 
whole  performance  was  peculiarly  privileged 
and  dignified.  For  to  have  an  orator  gesticu- 
lating and  speechifying  all  to  oneself,  on  one's 
own  order  and  choice  of  subject,  is  a  thing 
not  given  to  all  men. 

One  day  Minns  turned  up  (not  having  been 
invited)  with  a  friend.  Bill  did  not  take  to 
the  friend.  He  was  a  lank-jawed  man  with  a 
shifty  eye,  who  smiled  as  he  spoke,  and 
showed  a  top  row  of  irregular  and  dirty 
teeth.  This  friend,  Minns  explained,  was  a 
journalist — a  writer  of  newspapers  ;  and  be- 
tween them  they  had  an  idea,  which  idea  the 
friend  set  forth.  Everybody,  he  said,  who 
knew  the  history  of  Mr.  Napper,  admired  his 
sturdy  independence  and  democratic  sim- 
plicity. He  was  of  the  people  and  not 
ashamed  of  it.  ("  Well,  no,  I  ain't  proud," 
Bill  interjected,  wondering  what  was  com- 
ing.) With  all  the  advantages  of  wealth,  he 
preferred  to  remain  one  of  the  people,  living 
among  them  plainly,  conforming  to  their 
simple   habits,  and   sympathizing   with  their 


1 68 


sorrows.  ("  This  chap,"  thought  Bill,  "  wants 
to  be  took  on  to  hold  forth  turn  about  with 
the  other,  and  he's  showing  his  capers  ;  but  I 
ain't  on  it.")  It  was  the  knowledge  of  these 
things,  so  greatly  to  Mr.  Napper's  honor, 
that  had  induced  Minns  and  Minns's  friend  to 
place  before  him  a  means  by  which  he  might 
do  the  cause  of  toiling  humanity  a  very  great 
service.  A  new  weekly  paper  was  wanted — 
wanted  very  badly  ;  a  paper  that  should  rear 
its  head  on  behalf  of  the  down-trodden  toil- 
ers, and  make  its  mighty  voice  heard  with 
dread  by  the  bloated  circles  of  Class  and 
Privilege.  That  paper  would  prove  a  mar- 
velously  paying  investment  to  its  proprie- 
tor, bringing  him  enormous  profits  every 
week.  He  would  have  a  vast  fortune  in  that 
paper  alone,  besides  the  glory  and  satisfaction 
of  striking  the  great  blow  that  should  pave  the 
way  to  the  emancipation  of  the  Masses  and 
the  destruction  of  the  vile  system  of  society 
whose  whole  and  sole  effect  was  the  accumu- 
lation of  wealth  in  the  hands  of  the  Grasping 
Few.  Being  professionally  disengaged  at 
present,  he  (the  speaker),  in  conjunction  with 
his  friend  Minns,  had  decided  to  give  Mr. 
Napperthe  opportunity  of  becoming  its  pro- 
prietor. 


169 

Bill  was  more  than  surprised  ;  he  was  also  a 
little  bewildered. 

"  What,"  he  said,  after  two  draws  of  his 
pipe,  "  d'ye  mean  you  want  me  to  go  in  the 
printin'  line  ?" 

That  was  not  at  all  necessary.  The  print- 
ing would  be  done  by  contract.  Mr.  Napper 
would  only  have  to  find  the  money.  The 
paper,  with  a  couple  of  thousand  pounds  be- 
hind it — or  even  one  thousand  (Minns's  friend 
read  a  difficulty  in  Bill's  face) — would  be 
established  forever.  Even  five  hundred  would 
do,  and  many  successful  papers  had  been 
floated  with  no  more  than  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred or  so.  Suppose  they  said  just  a  couple 
of  hundred  to  go  on  with  till  the  paper  found 
its  legs  and  began  to  pay  ?  How  would  that 
do? 

Bill  Napper  smoked  a  dozen  whiffs.  Then 
he  said  : 

"  An'  what  should  I  'ave  to  do  with  the 
two  'undred  pound  ?     Buy  anythink  ?" 

Not  directly  that,  the  promoters  explained. 
It  would  finance  the  thing — just  finance  it. 

"  'Oo'd  'ave  the  money  then  ?" 

That  was  perfectly  simple.  It  would 
simply  be  handed  over  to  Minns  and  his 
friend,  and  they  would  attend  to  all  the  de- 
tails. 


lyo 

Bill  Nappcr  continued  to  smoke.  Then 
beginning  with  a  slight  chuckle  at  the  back 
of  his  throat,  he  said  : 

"  Wen  I  got  my  money  I  went  to  a  lawyer's 
for  it.  There  was  two  lawyers — one  lay  in' 
low.  There  was  two  fust-rate  lawyers  an'  a 
lot  o'  clurks — City  clurks — an'  a  bank  an'  all. 
An'  they  couldn't  'ave  me,  not  for  a  single 
farden — not  a  farden,  try  an'  fiddle  as  they 
would.  .  .  Well,  arter  that,  it  ain't  much 
good  you  a-tryin'  it  on,  is  it?  And  he  chuck- 
led again,  louder. 

Minns  was  indignant  ;  and  Minns's  friend 
was  deeply  hurt.  Both  protested.  Bill 
Napper  laughed  aloud. 

"  Awright,  you'll  do,"  he  said;  "you'll  do. 
My  'abits  may  be  simple,  but  they  ain't  as  sim- 
ple as  all  that.  Ha — ha  !  'Ere,  'ave  a  drink 
— you  ain't  done  no  'arm,  an'  I  ain't  spiteful. 
Ha— ha  !," 

It  was  on  an  evening  a  fortnight  after  this, 
that  as  Bill  Napper  lay,  very  full  of  beer  and 
rather  sleepy,  on  the  bed — the  rest  of  his 
household  being  out  of  doors — a  ladder  was 
quietly  planted  against  the  outer  wall  from 
the  back-yard.  Bill  heard  nothing  until  the 
window,  already  a  little  open,  was  slowly 
pushed  up,  and  from    the   twilight  outside  a 


171 

head  and  an  arm  plunged  into  the  thicker 
darkness  of  the  room,  and  a  hand  went  feel- 
ing along  the  edge  of  the  chest  of  drawers  by 
the  window.  Bill  rolled  over  on  the  bed, 
and  reached  from  the  floor  one  of  a  pair  of 
heavy  iron-set  boots.  Taking  the  toe  in  his 
right  hand,  and  grasping  the  footrail  of  the 
bedstead  with  his  left,  he  raised  himself  on 
his  knees,  and  brought  the  boot-heel  down 
heavily  on  the  intruding  head.  There  was  a 
gasp,  and  the  first  breath  of  a  yell,  and  head, 
arm,  shoulders,  and  body  vanished  with  a 
bump  and  a  rattle.  Bill  Napper  let  the  boot 
fall,  dropped  back  on  the  bed,  and  took  no 
further  heed. 

Neither  Minns  nor  his  friend  ever  came 
back  again,  but  for  some  time  after,  at  Vic- 
toria Park,  Minns,  inciting  an  outraged 
populace  to  rise  and  sweep  police  and  army 
from  the  earth,  was  able  to  point  to  an  honor- 
able scar  on  his  own  forehead,  the  proof  and 
sign  of  a  police  bludgeoning  at  Tower  Hill — 
or  Trafalgar  Square. 


Things    went    placidly    on    for    near    ten 
months.     Many  barrels  of  beer  had  come  in 


172 

full  and  been  sent  empty  away.  Also  the 
missis  had  got  a  gold  watch  and  divers  new- 
bonnets  and  gowns,  some  by  gift  from  Bill, 
some  by  applying  privily  to  the  drawer. 
Her  private  collection  of  bottles,  too,  had 
been  cleared  out  twice,  and  was  respectable 
for  the  third  time.  Everybody  was  not 
friendly  with  her,  and  one  bonnet  had  been 
torn  off  her  head  by  a  neighbor  who  disliked 
her  airs. 

So  it  stood  when,  on  a  certain  morning, 
Bill,  being  minded  to  go  out,  found  but  two 
shillings  in  his  pocket.  He  called  upstairs  to 
the  missis,  as  was  his  custom  in  such  a  pass, 
asking  her  to  fetch  a  sovereign  or  two  when 
she  came  down;  and,  as  she  was  long  in 
coming,  he  went  up  himself.  The  missis  left 
the  room  hurriedly,  and  Bill,  after  raking  out 
every  corner  of  the  drawer  (which  he  him- 
self had  not  opened  for  some  time),  saw  not  a 
single  coin.  The  missis  had  no  better  ex- 
planation than  that  there  must  have  been 
thieves  in  the  house  some  time  lately  ;  a 
suggestion  deprived  of  some  value  by  the 
subsequent  protest  that  Bill  couldn't  expect 
money  to  last  forever,  and  that  he  had  had 
the  last  three  days  ago.  In  the  end  there 
was  a  vehement  row,  and  the  missis  was 
severely  thumped. 


173 

The  thumping  over,  Bill  Napper  conceived 
a  great  idea.  Perhaps  after  all  the  lawyers 
had  done  him  by  understating  the  amount  his 
brother  had  left.  It  might  well  have  been 
five  hundred  pounds — a  thousand  pounds — 
anything.  Probably  it  was,  and  the  lawyers 
had  had  the  difference.  Plainly,  three  hun- 
dred pounds  was  a  suspiciously  small  sum  to 
inherit  from  a  well-to-do  brother.  He  would 
go  to  the  lawyers  and  demand  the  rest  of  his 
money.  He  would  not  reveal  his  purpose 
till  he  saw  the  lawyers  face  to  face,  and  then 
he  would  make  his  demand  suddenly,  so  that 
surprise  and  consternation  should  overwhelm 
and  betray  them.  He  would  give  them  to 
understand  that  he  had  complete  evidence  of 
the  whole  swindle.  In  any  case  he  could  lose 
nothing.  He  went,  after  carefully  preparing 
his  part,  and  was  turned  out  by  a  police- 
man. 

"  After  that,"  mused  Squire  Napper,  going 
home,  "  I  suppose  I'd  better  see  about  getting 
a  job  at  Allen's  again.  He  can't  but  make 
me  gaffer,  considering  I've  been  a  man  of 
property." 


"A   POOR   STICK" 

*  Mrs.  Jennings  (or  Jinnins,  as  the  neigh- 
bors would  have  it)  ruled  absolutely  at  home, 
when  she  took  so  much  trouble  as  to  do  any- 
thing at  all  there — which  was  less  often  than 
might  have  been.  As  for  Robert,  her  hus-  . 
band,  he  was  a  poor  stick,  said  the  neighbors. 
And  yet  he  was  a  man  with  enough  of  hardi- 
hood to  remain  a  non-unionist  in  the  erectors' 
shop  at  Maidment's  all  the  years  of  his  ser- 
vice ;  no.  mean  test  of  a  man's  fortitude  and 
resolution,  as  many  a  sufferer  for  independent 
opinion  might  testify.  The  truth  was  that 
Bob  never  grew  out  of  his  courtship  blind- 
ness. Mrs.  Jennings  governed  as  she  pleased, 
stayed  out  or  came  home  as  she  chose,  and 
cooked  a  dinner  or  didn't,  as  her  inclination 
stood.  Thus  it  was  for  ten  years,  during 
which  time  there  were  no  children,  and  Bob 
bore  all  things  uncomplaining;  cooking  his 
own  dinner  when  he  found  none  cooked,  and 

[i74] 


175 

sew  log  on  his  own  buttons.  Then  of  a-  sud- 
den came  children,  till  in  three  years  there 
were  three  ;  and  Bob  Jennings  had  to  nurse 
and  to  wash  them  as  often  as  not. 

Mrs.  Jennings  at  this  time  was  what  is  called 
rather  a  fine  woman  ;  a  woman  of  large,  scale 
and  full  development  ;  whose  slatternly  habits 
left  her  coarse,  black  hair  to  tumble  in  snake- 
locks  about  her  face  and  shoulders  half  the 
day  ;  who,  clad  in  half-hooked  clothes,  bore 
herself  notoriously  and  unabashed  in  her  full-* 
ness  ;  and  of  whom  ill  things  were  said  re- 
garding the  lodger.  The  gossips  had  their 
excuse.  The  lodger  was  an  irregular  young 
cabinet-maker,  who  lost  quarters  and  halves 
and  whole  days;  who  had  been  seen  abroad 
with  his  landlady,  what  time  Bob  Jennings 
was  putting  the  children  to  bed  at  home  ; 
who  on  his  frequent  holidays  brought  in 
much  beer,  which  he  and  the  woman  shared, 
while  Bob  was  at  work.  To  carry  the  tale 
to  Bob  would  have  been  a  thankless  effort, 
for  he  would  have  none  of  anybody's  sym- 
pathy, even  in  regard  to  miseries  plain  to  his 
eye.  But  the  thing  got  about  in  the  work- 
shop, and  there  his  days  were  made  bitter. 

At  home  things  grew  worse.  To  return 
at  half-past  five,  and  find  the  children  still  un- 
dressed, screaming,  hungry  and  dirty,  was  a 


176 

matter  of  habit  ;  to  get  them  food,  to  wash 
them,  to  tend  the  cuts  and  bumps  sustained 
through  the  day  of  neglect,  before  lighting  a 
fire  and  getting  tea  for  himself,  were  matters 
of  daily  duty.  "  Ah,"  he  said  to  his  si9ter, 
who  came  at  intervals  to  say  plain  things 
about  Mrs.  Jennings,  "  you  shouldn't  go  for 
to  set  a  man  agin'  'is  wife,  Jin.  Melier  do'n' 
like  work,  I  know,  but  that's  nach'ral  to  'er. 
She  ought  to  married  a  swell 'stead  o'  me; 
she  might  'a'  done  easy  if  she  liked,  bein' 
sich  a  fine  gal;  but  she's  good-'arted,  is 
Melier  ;  an'  she  can't  'elp  bein'  a  bit  thought- 
less." Whereat  his  sister  called  him  a  fool 
(it  was  her  customary  good-by  at  such  times), 
and  took  herself  off. 

Bob  Jennings's  intelligence  was  sufficient 
for  his  common  needs,  but  it  was  never  a 
vast  intelligence.  Now,  under  a  daily  bur- 
den of  dull  miser}7,  it  clouded  and  stopped. 
The  base  wit  of  the  workshop  he  compre- 
hended less,  and  realized  more  slowly,  than 
before  ;  and  the  gaffer  cursed  him  for  a  sleepy 
dolt. 

Mrs.  Jennings  ceased  from  any  pretense  of 
house wifery,  and  would  sometimes  sit — per- 
chance not  quite  sober — while  Bob  washed 
the  children  in  the  evening,  opening  her 
mouth  only  to  express  her  contempt  for  him 


177 

and  his  establishment,  and  to  make  him  un- 
derstand that  she  was  sick  of  both.  Once, 
exasperated  by  his  quietness,  she  struck  at 
him,  and  for  a  moment  he  was  another  man. 
"Don't  do  that,  Melier,"  he  said,  "else  I 
might  forget  myself."  His  manner  sui  prised 
his  wife  ;  and  it  was  such  that  she  never  did 
do  that  again. 

So  was  Bob  Jennings,  without  a  friend  in 
the  world,  except  his  sister,  who  chid  him, 
and  the  children,  who  squalled  at  him  ;  when 
his  wife  vanished  with  the  lodger,  the  clock, 
a  shade  of  wax  flowers,  Bob's  best  boots 
(which  fitted  the  lodger),  and  his  silver  watch. 
Bob  had  returned,  as  usual,  to  the  dirt  and 
the  children,  and  it  was  only  when  he  struck 
a  light  that  he  found  the  clock  was  gone. 

"  Mummy  tooked  ve  t'ock,"  said  Milly,  the 
eldest  child,  who  had  followed  him  in  from 
the  door,  and  now  gravely  observed  his 
movements.  "She  tooked  ve  t'ock  an'  went 
ta-ta.     An'  she  tooked  ve  fyowers." 

Bob  lit  the  parafrine  lamp  with  the  green 
glass  reservoir,  and  carried  it  and  its  evil 
smell  about  the  house.  Some  things  had 
been  turned  over  and  others  had  gone, 
plainly.  All  Melicr's  clothes  were  gone. 
The  lodger  was  not  in,  and  under  his  bed- 
room window,  where  his  box  had  stood,  there 


1/3 

was  naught  but  an  oblong  patch  of  con- 
spicuously clean  wall-paper.  In  a  muddle  of 
doubt  and  perplexity,  Bob  found  himself  at. 
the  front  door,  staring  up  and  down  the 
street.  Divers  women-neighbors  stood  at 
their  doors,  and  eyed  him  curiously;  for 
Mrs.  Webster,  moralist,  opposite,  had  not 
watched  the  day's  proceedings  (nor  those  of 
many  other  days)  for  nothing,  nor  had  she 
kept  her  story  to  herself. 

He  turned  back  into  the  house,  a  vague 
notion  of  what  had  befallen  percolating  feebly 
through  his  bewilderment.  "I  dunno — I 
dunno,"  he  faltered,  rubbing  his  ear.  His 
mouth  was  dry,  and  he  moved  his  lips 
uneasily,  as  he  gazed  with  aimless  looks 
about  the  walls  and  ceiling.  Presently  his 
eyes  rested  on  the  child,  and  "  Milly,"  he  said 
decisively,  "  come  an'  'ave  yer  face  washed." 
•  He  put  the  children  to  bed  early,  and  went 
out.  \n  the  morning,  when  his  sister  came, 
because  she  had  heard  the  news  in  common 
with  everybody  else,  he  had  not  returned. 
Bob  Jennings  had  never  lost  more  than  two 
quarters  in  his  life,  but  he  was  not  seen  at  the 
workshop  all  this  day.  His  sister  stayed  in 
the  house,  and  in  the  evening,  at  his  regular 
homing-time,  he  appeared,  haggard  and 
dusty,  and  began  his  preparations  for  wash- 


i/9 

ing  the  children.  When  he  was  made  to 
understand  that  they  had  been  already- 
attended  to,  he  looked  doubtful  and  troubled 
for  a  moment.  Presently  he  said  :  "  1  ain't 
found  'er  yet,  Jin  ;  I  was  in  'opes  she  might 
'a'  bin  back  by  this.  I — I  don't  expect  she'll 
be  very  long.  She  was  alwis  a  bit  larky,  was 
Melier  ;  but  very  good-'arted." 

His  sister  had  prepared  a  strenuous  lecture 
on  the  theme  of  "  I  told  you  so  ;"  but  the 
man  was  so  broken,  so  meek,  and  so  plainly 
unhinged  in  his  faculties,  that  she  suppressed 
it.  Instead,  she  gave  him  comfortable  talk, 
and  made  him  promise  in  the  end  to  sleep 
that  night,  and  take  up  his  customary  work 
in  the  morning. 

He  did  these  things,  and  could  have  worked 
placidly  enough  had  he  but  been  alone  ;  but 
the  tale  had  reached  the  workshop,  and  there 
was  no  lack  of  brutish  chaff  to  disorder  him. 
This  the  decenter  men  would  have  no  part 
in,  and  even  protested  against.  But  the  ill- 
conditioned  kept  their  way,  till,  at  the  cry  of 
"  Bell  Oh  !'  when  all  were  starting  for  dinner, 
one  of  the  worst  shouted  the  crudest  gibe  of 
all.  Bob  Jennings  turned  on  him  and 
knocked  him  over  a  scrap-heap. 

A  shout  went  up  from  the  hurrying  work- 
men, with  a  chorus  of  "  Serve  ye  right,"  and 


i8o 


the  fallen  joker  found  himself  awkwardly 
confronted  by  the  shop  bruiser.  But  Bob 
had  turned  to  a  corner,  and  buried  his  eyes 
in  the  bend  of  his  arm,  while  his  shoulders 
heaved  and  shook. 

He  slunk  away  home,  and  stayed  there  ; 
walking-  restlessly  to  and  fro,  and  often  peep- 
ing down  the  street  from  the  window.  When 
at  twilight,  his  sister  came  again,  he  had  be- 
come almost  cheerful,  and  said  with  some 
briskness,  "  I'm  agoin'  to  meet  'er,  Jin,  at 
seven.     I  know  where  she'll  be  waitin'." 

He  went  upstairs,  and  after  a  little  while 
came  down  again  in  his  best  black  coat,  care- 
fully smoothing  a  tall  hat  of  obsolete  shape 
with  his  pocket-handkerchief.  "  I  ain't  wore 
it  for  years,"  he  said.  "  I  ought  to  'a'  wore 
it — it  might  'a'  pleased  'er.  She  used  to  sny 
she  wouldn't  walk  with  me  in  no  other — 
when  I  used  to  meet  'er  in  the  evenin',  at 
seven  o'clock."  He  brushed  assiduously,  and 
put  the  hat  on.  "  I'd  better  'ave  a  shave 
round  the  corner  as  I  go  along,"  he  added, 
fingering  his  stubbly  chin. 

He  received  as  one  not  comprehending  his 
sister's  persuasion  to  remain  at  home  ;  but 
when  he  went  she  followed  at  a  little  dis- 
tance. After  his  pennv  shave  he  made  for 
the     main     road,     where     company-keeping 


i8r 


couples  walked  up  and  down  all  evening1. 
He  stopped  at  a  church,  and  began  pacing 
slowly  to  and  fro  before  it,  eagerly  looking 
out  each  way  as  he  went. 

His  sister  watched  him  for  nearly  half  nn 
hour,  and  then  went  home.  In  two  hours 
more  she  came  back  with  her  husband.  Bob 
was  still  there,  walking  to  and  fro. 

"  'Ullo,  Bob,"  said  his  brother-in-law ; 
"come  along  'ome  an'  get  to  bed,  there's  a 
good  chap.  You'll  be  awright  in  the 
mornin'." 

"  She  ain't  turned  up,"  Bob  complained  ; 
"  or  else  I've  missed  'er.  This  is  the  reg'lar 
place — where  I  alwis  used  to  meet  'er.  But 
she'll  come  to-morrer.  She  used  to  leave  me 
in  the  lurch  sometimes,  bein'  nach'rally  larky. 
But  very  good-'arted,  rnindjer;  very  good- 
'arted." 

She  did  not  come  the  next  evening,  nor 
the  next,  nor  the  evening  after,  nor  the  one 
after  that.  But  Bob  Jennings,  howbeit  de- 
pressed and  anxious,  was  always  confident. 
"  Somethink's  prevented  'er  to-night,"  he 
would  say,  "  but  she'll  come  to-morrer, 
.  .  .  I'll  buy  a  blue  tie  to-morrer — she 
used  to  like  me  in  a  blue  tie.  I  won't  miss 
'er  to-morrer.     I'll  come  a  little  earlier." 

So  it  went.     The  black  coat  grew  ragged 


I  82 


in  the  service,  and  hobbledehoys,  finding  him 
safe  sport,  smashed  the  tall  hat  over  his  eyes 
time  after  time.  He  wept  over  the  hat,  and 
straightened  it  as  best  he  might.  Was  she 
coming?  Night  after  night,  and  night  and 
night.      But  to-morrow.     .     . 


A   CONVERSION 

There  are  some  poor  criminals  that  never 
have  a  chance ;  circumstances  are  against 
them  from  the  first,  as  they  explain,  with 
tears,  to  sympathetic  mission-readers.  Cir- 
cumstances had  always  been  against  Scuddy 
Lond,  the  gun.  The  word  gun,  it  may  be 
explained,  is  a  friendly  synonym  for  thief. 

His  first  name  was  properly  James,  but  that 
had  been  long  forgotten.  "  Scuddy  "  meant 
nothing  in  particular,  was  derived  from 
nothing,  and  was  not,  apparently,  the  inven- 
tion of  any  distinct  person.  Still,  it  was 
commonly  his  only  name,  and  most  of  his 
acquaintances  had  also  nicknames  of  similarly 
vague  origin.  Scuddy  was  a  man  of  fine 
feelings,  capable  of  a  most  creditable  hour  of 
rapturous  misery  after  hearing,  perhaps  at  a 
sing-song,  "  Put  Me  in  my  Little  Bed,"  or 
any  other  ditty  that  was  rank  enough  in  senti- 
ment ;    wherefore  the  mission-readers  never 

[183] 


1 84 

really  despaired  of  him.  He  was  a  small, 
shabby  man  of  twenty-six,  but  looking 
younger;  with  a  runaway  chin,  a  sharp, 
yellow  face,  and  tremulously  sly  eyes  ;  with 
but  faint  traces  of  hair  on  his  face,  he  had  a 
great  deal  of  it,  straight  and  ragged  and 
dirty,  on  his  head. 

Scuddy  Lond's  misfortunes  began  early. 
Temptation  had  prevailed  against  him  when 
he  was  at  school,  but  that  was  nothing.  He 
became  errand  boy  in  a  grocer's  shop,  and 
complications  with  the  till  brought  him,  a 
howling  penitent,  to  the  police  court.  Here, 
while  his  mother  hid  her  head  in  the  waiting- 
room,  he  set  forth  the  villainy  of  older  boys 
who  had  prompted  him  to  sin,  and  got  away 
with  no  worse  than  a  lecture  on  the  evils  of 
bad  company.  So  that  a  philanthropist 
found  him  a  better  situation  at  a  distance, 
where  the  evil  influence  could  no  longer  move 
him.  Here  he  stayed  a  good  while — longer 
than  some  who  had  been  there  before  him, 
but  who  had  to  leave  because  of  vanish- 
ing postal  orders.  Nevertheless,  the  postal 
orders  still  went,  and  in  the  end  he  confessed 
to  another  magistrate,  and  fervently  promised 
to  lead  a  better  life  if  his  false  start  were 
only  forgiven.  Betting,  he  protested,  was 
this  time  the  author  of  his  fall ;   and  as  that 


i8s 

pernicious  institution  was  clearly  to  blame 
for  the  unhappy  young  man's  ruin,  the 
lamenting  magistrate  let  him  off  with  a 
simple  month  in  consideration  of  his  misfor- 
tune and  the  intercession  of  his  employer, 
who  had  never  heard  of  the  grocer,  and  his 
till. 

After  his  month  Scuddy  went  regularly 
into  business  as  a  lob-crawler  ;  that  is  to  say, 
he  returned  to  his  first  love,  the  till  ;  not 
narrowly  to  any  individual  till,  but  broad- 
mindedly  to  the  till  as  a  general  institution, 
to  be  approached  in  unattended  shops  by 
stealthy  groveling  on  the  bell)'.  This  he 
did  until  he  perceived  the  greater  security 
and  comfort  of  waiting  without  while  a  small 
boy  did  the  actual  work  within.  From  this, 
and  with  this,  he  ventured  on  peter-claiming  ; 
laying  hands  nonchalantly  on  unconsidered 
parcels  and  bags  at  railway  stations,  until  a 
day  when,  bearing  a  fat  portmanteau,  he  ran 
against  its  owner  by  the  door  of  a  refresh- 
ment bar.  This  time  the  responsibility  lay 
with  Drink.  Strong  Drink,  he  declared,  with 
deep  emotion,  had  been  his  ruin  ;  he  dated  his 
downfall  from  the  day  when  a  false  friend 
persuaded  him  to  take  a  Social  Glass ;  he 
would  still  have  been  an  honest,  upright,  self- 
respecting  young  man   but   for   the  Cursed 


1 36 


Drink.  From  that  moment  he  would  never 
toucli  it  more.  The  case  was  met  with  three 
months  with  hard  labor,  and  for  all  that 
Scuddy  Lond  had  so  clearly  pointed  out  the 
culpability  of  Drink,  he  had  to  do  the  drag 
himself.  But  the  mission-readers  were  com- 
forted ;  for  clearly  there  was  hope  for  one 
whose  eyes  were  so  fully  opened  to  the  causes 
of  his  degradation. 

After  the  drag,  Scuddy  for  long  made  a 
comfortable  living,  free  from  injurious  over- 
work, in  the  several  branches  of  lob-crawl- 
ing and  peter-claiming,  with  an  occasional 
deviation  into  parlor-jumping.  It  is  true 
that  this  last  did  sometimes  involve  unpleas- 
ant exertion  when  the  window  was  high  and 
the  boy  heavy  to  bunk  up  ;  and  it  was  neces- 
sary at  times  to  run.  But  Scuddy  was  out 
of  work,  and  hunger  drove  him  to  anything, 
so  long  as  it  was  light  and  not  too  risky. 
And  it  is  marvelous  to  reflect  how  much  may 
be  picked  up  in  the  streets  and  at  the  side- 
doors  of  London  and  the  suburbs  without 
danger  or  vulgar  violence.  And  so  Scuddy's 
life  went  on,  with  occasional  misfortunes  in 
the  way  of  a  moon,  or  another  drag,  or  per- 
haps a  sixer.  And  the  mission-readers  never 
despaired,  because  the  real  cause  was  always 
hunger,  or    thirst,  or    betting,  or   a  sudden 


i?7 

temptation,  or  something  quite  exceptional — 
never  anything-  like  real,  hardened,  unblush- 
ing wickedness;  and  the  man  himself  was  al- 
ways truly  penitent.  He  made  such  touching 
references  to  his  innocent  childhood,  and  was 
so  grateful  for  good  advice  or  anything  else 
you  might  give  him. 

One  bold  attempt  Scuddy  made  to  realize 
his  desire  for  better  things.  He  resolved  to 
depart  from  his  evil  ways  and  to  become  a 
nark — a  copper's  nark — which  is  a  police  spy, 
or  informer.  The  work  was  not  hard,  there 
was  no  imprisonment,  and  he  would  make 
amends  for  the  past.  But  hardly  had  he 
begun  his  narking  when  some  of  the  Kate 
Street  mob  dropped  on  him  in  Brick  Lane, 
and  bashed  him  full  sore.  This  would  never 
do  ;  so  once  more  implacable  circumstances 
drove  him  to  his  old  courses.  And  there 
was  this  added  discomfort;  that  no  boy 
would  parlor-jump  nor  dip  the  lob  for  him. 
Indeed  they  bawled  aloud,  "  Yah,  Scuddy 
Lond  the  copper's  nark  !"  So  that  the  hand 
of  all  Flower  and  Dean  Street  was  against 
him.     Scuddy  grew  very  sad. 

These  and  other  matters  were  heavy  upon 
his  heart  on  an  evening  when,  with  nothing 
in  his  pockets  but  the  piece  of  coal  that  he 
carried    for    luck,    he    turned    aimlessly    up 


1 88 


Baker's  Row.  Things  were  very  bad  ;  it 
was  as  though  the  whole  world  knew  him — 
and  watched.  Shop-keepers  stood  frown- 
ingly  at  their  doors.  People  sat  defiantly  on 
piles  of  luggage  at  the  railway  stations,  and 
Ihere  was  never  a  peter  to  touch  for.  All 
the  areas  were  empty,  and  there  were  no  side- 
doors  left  unguarded,  where,  failing  the 
more  desirable  wedge,  one  might  claim  a 
pair  or  two  of  daisies  put  out.  for  cleaning. 
All  the  hundred  trifling  things  that  commonly 
come  freely  to  hand  in  a  mile  or  two  of  streets 
were  somehow  swept  out  of  the  world's 
economy;  and  Scuddy  tramped  into  Baker's 
Row  in  melting  mood.  Why  were  things  so 
hard  for  some  and  so  easy  for  others?  It 
was  not  as  though  he  were  to  blame — he,  a 
man  of  feeling  and  sentiment.  Why  were 
others  living  comfortable  lives  unvexed  of  any 
dread  of  the  police?  And  apart  from  that, 
why  did  other  gonophs  get  lucky  touches  for 
half  a  century  of  quids  at  a  time,  while  he! 
.  .  .  But  there,  the  world  was  one  brutal 
oppression  and  he  was  its  most  pitiable  victim; 
and  he  slunk  along,  dank  with  the  pathos  of 
things. 

At  a  corner  a  group  was  standing  about  a 
woman,  whose  voice  was  uplifted  to  a  man's 
accompaniment  on  a  stand-accordion.     Scud- 


189 

dy  listened.     She    sang-,  with  a  harsh  trem- 
ble: 


"  — An  sang  a  song  of  'ome,  sweet  'ome. 

The  song  that  reached  my  'art. 
'Ome,  'ome,  sweet,  sweet  'ome. 
She  sang  the  song  of  'ome,  sweet  'ome. 

The  song-  that  reached  my  'art !' 

Here,  indeed,  was  something  in  tune  with 
Scuddy's  fine  feelings.  He  looked  up.  From 
the  darkening  sky  the  evening  star  winked 
through  the  smoke  from  a  factory  chimney. 
From  a-near  came  an  exquisite  scent  of 
saveloys.  Plaintive  influences  all.  He  tried 
to  think  of  'ome  himself — of  'ome  strictly  in 
the  abstract,  so  that  it  might  reach  his  'art. 
He  stood  for  some  minutes  torpid  and  mind- 
less, oozing'  with  sentiment,  till  the  song- 
ended,  and  he  went  on.  Fine  feelings — fine! 
He  crossed  the  road,  and  took  a  turning. 
A  lame  old  woman  sat  in  a  recess  selling 
trotters,  where  a  dark  passage  led  back  to  a 
mission-hall.  About  the  opening  a  man  hov- 
ered— fervent,  watchful — and  darted  forth  on 
passers-by.  He  laid  his  hand  on  Scuddy's 
shoulder,  and  said,  "  My  dear  friend,  will  you 
come  in  an'  'ear  the  word  of  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ?" 


190 

Scuddy  turned  ;  the  sound  of  an  harmo- 
nium and  many  strenuous  voices  came  faintly 
down  the  passage.  It  was  his  mood.  Why 
not  give  his  fine  feelings  another  little  run? 
He  would  ;   he  would  go  in. 

"  Trotters!"  quavered  the  lame  old  woman, 
looking  up  wistfully.  "  Two  a  penny  !  Two 
a  penny  !"  But  no;  he  went  up  the  passage, 
and  she  turned  patientlv  to  her  board. 

Along  the  passage  the  singing  grew  louder, 
and  burst  on  his  ears  unchecked  as  he  pushed 
open  the  door  at  the  end. 

"  — 'Oosoever  will,  'oosoever  will. 
Send the  proclamation  over  vale  an'  'ill: 
'Tis  a  lovin  Father  calls  the  wand'rer  'ome, 
'Oosoever  will  may  come/" 

A  man  by  the  door  knew  him  at  once  for  a 
stranger,  and  found  him  a  seat.  The  hymn 
went  quavering  to  an  end,  and  the  preacher 
in  charge,  a  small,  bright-eyed  man  with  re- 
bellious hair  and  a  surprisingly  deep  voice, 
announced  that  Brother  Spyers  would  offer  a 
prayer. 

The  man  prayed  with  his  every  facultw 
He  was  a  sturdy,  red-necked  artisan,  great  of 
hand  and  wiry  of  beard  ;  a  smith,  perhaps,  or 
a  bricklayer.     He  spread  his  arms  wide,  and, 


igi 

his  head  thrown  back,  brought  forth,  with 
passion  and  pain,  his  fervid,  disordered  sen- 
tences. As  he  went  on,  his  throat  swelled 
and  convulsed  in  desperate  knots,  and  the 
sweat  hung  thick  on  his  face.  He  called  for 
grace,  that  every  unsaved  soul  there  might 
come  to  the  fold  and  believe  that  night.  Or 
if  not  all,  then  some — even  a  few.  That  at 
least  one,  only  one,  poor  soul  might  be 
plucked  as  a  brand  from  the  burning.  And 
as  he  flung  together,  with  clumsy  travail,  his 
endless,  formless,  unconsidered  vehemences 
of  uttermost  Cockney,  the  man  stood  trans- 
figured, admirable. 

From  here  and  there  came  deep  amens. 
Then  more,  with  gasps,  groans  and  sobs. 
Scuddy  J  ond,  carried  away  luxuriously  on  a 
tide  of  grievous  sensation,  groaned  with  the 
others.  The  prayer  ended  in  a  chorus  of  ejacu- 
lations. Then  there  was  a  hymn.  Somebody 
stuffed  an  open  hymn-book  into  Scuddy's 
hand  but  he  scarce  saw  it.  Abandoning  him- 
self to  the  mesmeric  influence  of  the  many 
who  were  singing  about  him,  he  plunged 
and  reveled  in  a  debauch  of  emotion.  He 
heard,  he  even  joined  in  ;  but  understood 
nothing,  for  his  feelings  filled  him  to  over- 
flowing. 


192 

"  /  'ave  a  robe,  'tis  resplendent  in  w'iteness, 
Awaitiri  in  glory  my  wonder  in  view , 

Oh,  w'en  I  receive  it,  all  shinin  in  brightness. 
Dear  friend,  could  J  see  you  receivin'  one  too  / 

For  you  I  am  pray  in'  I    For  you  I  am  pray  in' ! 
For  you  I  am  pray  in'  I'm  pray  in  for  you." 

The  hymn  ceased  ;  all  sat  down,  and  the 
preacher  began  his  discourse  ;  quietly  at  first, 
and  then,  though  in  a  different  way,  with  all 
the  choking  fervor  of  the  man  who  had 
prayed.  For  the  preacher  was  fluent  as  well 
as  zealous,  and  his  words,  except  when  emo- 
tion stayed  them,  poured  in  a  torrent.  He 
preached  faith — salvation  in  faith — declaim- 
ing, beseeching,  commanding.  "  Come — 
come  !  Now  is  the  appointed  time  !  Only 
believe — only  come!  Only — only  come!" 
To  impassioned,  broken  entreaty  he  added 
sudden  command  and  the  menace  of  eternity, 
but  broke  away  pitifully  again  in  urgent 
pleadings,  pantings,  gasps;  pointing  above, 
spreading  his  arms  abroad,  stretching  them 
forth  imploringly.     Come,  only  come  ! 

Sobs  broke  out  in  more  than  one  place.  A 
woman  bowed  her  head  and  rocked,  while 
her  shoulders  shook  again.  Brother  Spyers's 
face  was  alight  with  joy.  A  tremor,  a  throe 
of  the  senses  ran  through  the  assembly  as 
through  a  single  body. 


193 

The  preacher  nearing  his  peroration,  rose  to 
a  last  frenzy  of  adjuration.  Then,  ending  in 
a  steadier  key,  he  summoned  any  to  stand 
forth  who  had  found  grace  that  night. 

His  bright,  strenuous  eves  were  on  the 
sobbers,  charging  them,  drawing  them.  First 
rose  the  woman  who  had  bowed  her  head. 
Her  face  uncovered  but  distorted  and  twitch- 
ing, still  weeping  but  rapt  and  unashamed, 
she  tottered  out  between  the  seats,  and  sank 
at  last  on  the  vacant  form  in  front.  Next  a 
child,  a  little  maid  of  ten,  lank-legged  and 
outgrown  of  her  short  skirts,  her  eyes  squeezed 
down  on  a  tight  knot  of  pocket-handkerchief, 
crying  wildly,  broken-hearted ly,  sobbed  and 
blundered  over  seat-corners  and  toes,  and 
sat  down  forlorn  and  solitary,  at  the  other 
end  of  the  form.  And  after  her  came  Scuddy 
Loud. 

Why,  he  knew  not — nor  cared.  In  the  full 
enjoyment  of  a  surfeit  of  indefinite  emotion, 
tearful,  rapturous,  he  had  accepted  the  com- 
mand put  on  him  by  the  preacher,  and  he  had 
come  forth,  walking  on  clouds,  regenerate, 
compact  of  fine  feelings.  There  was  a  short 
prayer  of  thanks,  and  then  a  final  hymn  : 

"  Ring  the  bells  of  'eaven,  there  is  joy  to-day, 
For  a  soul retumin  from  the  wild  !" 


i94 

Scuddy  felt  a  curious  equable  lightness  of 
spirits — a  serene  cheerfulness.  His  emotional 
organism  was  spent,  and  in  its  place  was  a 
numb  calm,  pleasant  enough. 

"  — Glory  f  Glory  !  '07a  the  angels  sing — 
Glory  I  glory  !  'ow  the  loud  'arfis  ring  / 
'  Tis  the  ransomed  army,  like  a  mighty  sea, 
Pealin  forth  the  anthem  of  the  free  !" 

The  service  ended.  The  congregation 
trooped  forth  into  the  evening  ;  but  Scuddy 
sat  where  he  was,  for  the  preacher  wanted  a 
few  words  with  his  converts  ere  he  would 
let  them  go.  He  shook  hands  with  Scuddy 
Loud,  and  spoke  with  grave,  smiling  confi- 
dence about  his  soul.  Brother  Spyers  also 
shook  hands  with  him  and  bespoke  his  return 
on  Sunday. 

In  the  cool  air  of  the  empty  passage, 
Scuddy's  ordinary  faculties  began  to  assert 
themselves;  still  in  an  atmosphere  of  calm 
cheer.  Fine  feelings — fine.  And  as  lie 
turned  the  piece  of  coal  in  his  pocket,  he 
reflected  that,  after  all,  the  day  had  not  be  c  11 
altogether  unlucky — not  in  every  sense  a 
blank.  Emerging  into  the  street,  he  saw  that 
the  lame  old  woman,  who  was  almost  alone 
in  view,  had  risen  on  her  crutch  and  turned 


195 

her  back  to  roll  her  white  cloth  over  her  re- 
maining trotters.  On  the  ledge  behind  stood 
her  little  pile  of  coppers,  just  reckoned. 
Scuddy  Lond's  practised  eye  took  the  c;ise  in 
a  flash.  With  two  long,  tip-toed  steps  he 
reached  the  coppers,  lifted  them  silently,  and 
hurried  away  up  the  street.  He  did  not  run, 
for  the  woman  was  lame  and  had  not  heard 
him.  No,  decidedly  the  day  had  not  been 
blank.     For  here  was  a  hot  supper. 


"ALL   THAT    MESSUAGE" 

I 

"All  that  messuage  dwelling-house  and 
premises  now  standing  on  part  of  the  said 
parcel  of  ground,"  was  the  phrase  in  the  as- 
signment of  lease,  although  it  only  meant. 
Number  Twenty-seven  Mulberry  Street,  Old 
Ford,  containing  five  rooms  and  a  wash-house, 
and  sharing  a  dirty  front  wall  with  the  rest 
of  the  street  on  the  same  side.  The  phrase 
was  a  very  fine  one,  and,  with  others  more 
intricate,  lent  not  a  little  to  the  triumph  and 
the  perplexity  the  transaction  filled  old  Jaclc 
Randall  withal.  The  business  was  a  conjunc  - 
tion  of  purchase  and  mortgage,  whereby  old 
Jack  Randall,  having  thirty  pounds  of  his 
own,  had,  after  half  an  hour  of  helpless  stupe- 
faction in  a  solicitor's  office  in  Cornhill, 
bought  a  house  for  two  hundred  and  twenty 
pounds,  and  paid  ten  pounds  for  stamps  and 
lawyer's  fees,     The  remaining  two  hundred 

[196] 


i97 

pounds  had  been  furnished  by  the  Indubitable 
Perpetual  Building  Society,  on  the  security 
of  a  mortgage  ;  and  the  loan  with  its  interest 
was  to  be  repaid  in  monthly  installments  of 
two  pounds  and  fourpence  during  twelve 
years.  Thus  old  Jack  Randall  designed  to 
provide  for  the  wants  and  infirmities  of  age  ; 
and  the  outright  purchase,  he  argued,  was  a 
thing  of  mighty  easy  accomplishment.  For 
the  house  let  at  nine  shillings  a  week,  which 
was  twenty-three  pounds  eight  shillings  a 
year;  and  the  mortgage  installments,  with 
the  ground  rent  of  three  pounds  a  year,  only 
came  to  twenty-seven  pounds  four,  leaving  a 
difference  of  three  pounds  sixteen,  which 
would  be  more  than  covered  by  a  saving  of 
eighteenpence  a  week  ;  certainly  not  a  diffi- 
cult saving  for  a  man  with  a  regular  job  and 
no  young  family,  who  had  put  by  thirty 
pounds  in  little  more  than  three  years.  Thus 
on  many  evenings  old  Jack  Randall  and  his 
wife  would  figure  out  the  thing,  wholly  for- 
getting rates  and  taxes  and  repairs. 

Old  Jack  stood  on  the  pavement  of  Corn- 
hill,  and  stared  at  the  traffic.  When  he  re- 
membered that  Mrs.  Randall  was  by  his 
side  he  said,  "  Well,  mother,  we  done  it;" 
and  his  wife  replied,  "  Yus,  fa',  you're  a  lan'- 
lord  now,"     Hereat  he  chuckled,  and  began 


198 

to  walk  eastward.  For  to  be  a  landlord  is 
the  ultimate  dignity.  There  is  no  trouble,  no 
anxiety  in  the  world  if  you  are  a  landlord; 
and  there  is  no  work.  You  just  walk  round 
on  Monday  mornings  (or  maybe  you  even 
drive  in  a  trap),  and  you  collect  your  rents  ; 
eight  and  six,  or  nine  shillings,  or  ten  shil- 
lings, as  the  case  may  be.  And  there  you 
are  !  It  is  better  than  shopkeeping,  because 
the  money  comes  by  itself  ;  and  it  is  infinitely 
more  genteel.  Also,  it  is  better  than  having 
money  in  a  bank  and  drawing  interest;  be- 
cause the  house  cannot  run  away  as  is  the 
manner  of  directors,  nor  dissolve  into  noth- 
ingness as  is  the  way  of  banks.  And  here 
was  he,  Jack  Randall,  walking  down  Leaden- 
hall  Street  a  landlord.  He  mounted  a  tram- 
car  at  Aldgate,  and  all  things  were  real. 


II 


Old  Jack  had  always  been  old  Jack  since 
at  fourteen  young  Jack  had  come  'prentice 
in  the  same  engine-turner's  shop.  Young 
Jack  was  a  married  man  himself  now,  at 
another  shop  ;  and  old  Jack  was  near  fifty  ; 
and  had  set  himself  toward  thrift.  All  along 
Whitechapel    Road,    Mile    End    Road,  and 


199 

Bow  Road  he  considered  the  shops  and 
houses  from  the  tram-roof,  madly  estimating 
rents  and  values.  Near  Bow  Road  end  he 
and  his  wife  alighted,  and  went  inspecting 
Twenty-seven  Mulberry  Street  once  more. 
Old  Jack  remarked  that  the  scraper  was  of  a 
different  shape  from  that  he  had  carried  in 
his  mind  since  their  last  examination  ;  and 
he  mentioned  it  to  Mrs.  Randall,  who  consid- 
ered the  scraper  of  fact  rather  better  than 
the  scraper  of  memory.  They  walked  to 
and  fro  several  times,  judging  the  door  and 
three  windows  from  each  side  of  the  street, 
and  in  the  end  they  knocked,  with  a  purpose 
of  reporting  the  completed  purchase.  But 
the  tenant's  wife,  peeping  from  behind  a 
blind,  and  seeing  only  the  people  who  had 
already  come  spying  about  the  house  some 
two  or  three  times,  retired  to  the  back  and 
went  on  with  her  weekly  washing. 

They  waited  a  little,  repeated  the  knock, 
and  then  went  away.  The  whole  day  was 
"  off,"  and  a  stroll  in  the  Tower  Hamlets 
Cemetery  was  decided  on.  Victoria  Park 
was  as  near,  but  was  not  in  the  direction  of 
home.  Moreover,  there  was  less  interest  for 
Mrs.  Randall  in  Victoria  Park,  because  there 
were  no  funerals.  In  the  cemetery,  Mrs. 
Randall  solaced  herself  and  old  Jack  with  the 


200 


more  sentimental  among-  the  inscriptions.  In 
the  poor  part,  whose  miscellaneous  graves 
are  marked  by  mounds  alone,  they  stopped 
to  look  at  a  very  cheap  funeral. 

"Lor',  Jack,"  Mrs.  Randall  said,  under  her 
breath  with  a  nudge,  "  wot  a  common  caufin  ! 
Why,  the  body's  very  nigh  a-droppin'  through 
the  bottom!"  The  thin  tinder-board  had,  in 
fact,  a  bulge.     "  Poor  chap  !  ain't  it  shockin'!" 

The  ignominy  of  a  funeral  with  no  feathers 
was  a  thing-  accepted  of  course,  but  the 
horror  of  a  cheap  coffin  they  had  never 
realized  till  now.  They  turned  away.  In 
the  main  path  they  met  the  turgid  funeral  of 
a  Bow  Road  bookmaker.  After  the  dozen 
mourning  coaches  there  were  cars  and  pony 
traps,  and  behind  these  came  a  fag-end  of 
carts  and  donkey-barrows.  Ahead  of  all  was 
the  glazed  hearse,  with  attendants  in  weepers, 
and  by  it,  full  of  the  pride  of  artistry,  walked 
the  undertaker  himself.  "  Now  that,"  said 
old  Jack,  "  is  somethin'  like  a  caufin."  (It 
was  heavy  and  polished  and  beset  with  bright 
fittings).  "Ah,"  sighed  his  missis,  "ain't  it 
lovely !" 

The  hearse  drew  up  at  the  chapel  door, 
where  the  undertaker  turned  to  the  right- 
about and  placidly  surveyed  the  movements 
of    his     forces.      Mrs,    Randall     murmured 


201 


again  :  "  Lovely — lovely  !"  and  kept  her  eyes 
on  the  coffin.  Then  she  edged  gently  up  to 
the  undertaker,  and  whispered  :  "  What 
would  that  kind  o'  caufin  be  called,  mister?" 

The  undertaker  looked  at  her  from  the 
sides  of  his  eyes  and  answered  briskly  :  "Two- 
inch  polished  oak  solid  extry  brass  fittin's." 
Mrs.  Randall  returned  to  old  Jack's  side  and 
repeated  the  words.  "  That  must  cost  a 
lot,"  she  said.  "  What  a  thing,  though,  to 
be  certain  you  won't  be  buried  in  a  trump- 
ery box  like  that  other!  Ah,  it's  well  to  be 
rich." 

Old  Jack  gazed  on  the  coffin,  and  thought. 
Surely  a  landlord,  if  anybody,  was  entitled  to 
indulge  in  an  expensive  coffin?  All  da)'  he 
had  nursed  a  fancy  that  some  small  indul- 
gence, something  a  little  heavier  than  usual 
in  the  matter  of  expense,  would  be  proper  to 
celebrate  the  occasion.  But  he  reflected  that 
his  savings  were  gone  and  his  pockets  no 
fuller  than  had  always  been  their  Wednesday 
wont;  though,  of  course,  in  that  matter  the 
future  would  be  different.  The  bearers  car- 
ried the  coffin  into  the  chapel,  and  Mrs.  Rnn- 
dall  turned  away  among  the  graves.  Old 
Jack  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and,  look- 
ing at  the  ground,  said  :  "  That  was  a  nobby 
caufin,  mother,  wasn't  it  ?"     Whereunto  Mrs. 


202 

Randall  murmured  :  "  Lovely — lovely  !"  yet 
again. 

Old  Jack  walked  a  little  further  and  asked  : 
"  Two-inch  polished  oak,  'e  said,  didn't  'e  ?" 

"  Solid,  an'  extry  brass  fittin's ;  beautiful  !" 

"  I'll  remember  it.  That's  what  you  shall 
'ave  if  it  'appens  you  go  fust.  There  !"  And 
old  Jack  sat  on  the  guard-chain  of  a  flowery 
grave  with  the  air  of  one  giving  a  handsome 
order. 

"  Me  ?     Git  out !     Look  at  the  expense." 

"  Matter  o'  circumstances.  Look  at  Jen- 
kins's Gardens.  Jenkins  was  a  bench-'and  at 
the  Limited;  got  'is  'ouses  one  under  another 
through  building  s'ieties.  That  there  caufin 
'ud  be  none  too  dear  for  *im.  We're  begin- 
nin';  an'  I  promise  you  that  same,  if  you'd 
like  it." 

"  Like  it!"  the  missis  ejaculated.  "  Course 
I  should.     Wouldn't  you  ?" 

"  Wy,  yus.  Any  one  'ud  prefer  somethin* 
a  bit  nobb)r  ;  an'  thick." 

And  the  missis  reciprocated  old  Jack's 
promise,  in  case  he  died  first;  if  a  two-inch 
polished  oak  solid  could  be  got  for  every- 
thing she  had  to  offer.  And,  tea-time 
approaching,  they  made  well  pleased  for 
home. 


203 

III 


In  two  day  old  Jack  was  known  as  a  land- 
lord all  about.  On  the  third  day,  which  was 
Saturday,  young  Jack  called  to  borrow  half 
a  sovereign,  but  succeeded  only  to  the  extent 
of  five  shillings  ;  work  was  slack  with  him, 
and  three  days  of  it  was  all  he  had  had  that 
week.  This  had  happened  before,  and  he 
had  got  on  as  best  he  could  ;  but  now,  with  a 
father  buying  house-property,  it  was  absurd 
to  economize  for  lack  of  half  a  sovereign. 
When  he  brought  the  five  shillings  home, 
his  wife  asked  why  he  had  not  thrown  them 
at  his  father's  head ;  a  course  of  procedure 
which,  young  Jack  confessed,  had  never 
occurred  to  his  mind.  "  Stingy  old  'unks  !" 
she  scolded.  "  A-goin'  about  buyin'  'ouses, 
an'  won't  lend  'is  own  son  ten  shillin's ! 
Much  good  may  all  'is  money  do  'im  with  'is 
'ateful  mean  ways!"  This  was  the  begin- 
ning of  old  Jack's  estrangement  from  his 
relatives.  For  young  Jack's  missis  expressed 
her  opinion  in  other  places,  and  young  Jack 
was  soon  ready  to  share  it ;  rigidly  abstain- 
ing from  another  attempt  at  a  loan,  though 
he  never  repaid  the  five  shillings. 

In  the  course  of  the  succeeding  week  two 


204 

of  his  shopmates  took  old  Jack  aside  at  differ- 
ent times  to  explain  that  the  loan  of  a  pound 
or  two  would  make  the  greatest  imaginable 
difference  to  the  whole  course  of  their  future 
lives,  while  the  temporary  absence  of  the 
money  would  be  imperceptible  to  a  capital- 
ist like  himself.  When  he  roundly  declared 
that  he  had  as  few  loose  sovereigns  as  them- 
selves, he  was  set  down  an  uncommon  liar  as 
well  as  a  wretched  old  miser.  This  was  the 
beginning  of  old  Jack's  unpopularity  in  the 
workshop. 


IV 


He  took  a  half  day  off  to  receive  the  first 
week's  rent  in  state,  and  Mrs.  Randall  went 
with  him.  He  showed  his  written  authority 
from  the  last  landlord,  and  the  tenant's  wife 
paid  over  the  sum  of  nine  shillings,  giving 
him  at  the  same  time  the  rent-book  to  sign 
and  a  slip  of  written  paper.  This  last  was  a 
week's  notice  to  terminate  the  tenancy. 

"We're  very  well  satisfied  with  the  'ouse," 
the  tenant's  wife  said  (she  was  a  painfully 
clean,  angular  woman,  with  a  notable  flavor 
of  yellow  soap  and  scrubbing-brush  about 
her),  "  but  m)r  'usband  finds  it  too  far  to  get 
to  an'  from  Albert  Docks  mornin'  and  night. 


205 

So  we're  goin'  to  West  'Am."  And  she 
politely  ejected  her  visitors  by  opening  the 
door  and  crowding  them  through  it. 

The  want  of  a  tenant  was  a  contingency 
that  old  Jack  had  never  contemplated.  As 
long  as  it  lasted  it  would  necessitate  the  set- 
ting by  of  ten  and  sixpence  a  week  for  the 
building  society  payments  and  the  ground 
rent.  This  was  serious  ;  it  meant  knocking 
off  some  of  the  butcher's  meat,  all  the  beer 
and  tobacco,  and  perhaps  a  little  firing.  Old 
Jack  resolved  to  waste  no  more  half-days  in 
collecting,  but  to  send  his  missis.  On  the  fol- 
lowing Monday,  therefore,  while  the  tenant's 
wife  kept  a  sharp  eye  on  the  man  who  was 
piling  a  greengrocer's  van  with  chairs  and 
tables,  Mrs.  Randall  fixed  a  "  To  Let  "  bill  in 
the  front  window.  In  the  leaves  of  the  rent- 
book  she  found  another  thing  of  chagrin  ;  to 
wit,  a  notice  demanding  payment  of  poor, 
highway,  and  general  rates  to  the  amount  of 
one  pound  eighteen  and  sevenpence.  Now, 
no  thought  of  rates  and  taxes  had  ever  vexed 
the  soul  of  old  Jack.  Of  course,  he  might 
have  known  that  his  own  landlord  paid  the 
rates  for  his  house  ;  but,  indeed,  he  had  never 
once  thought  of  the  thing,  being  content  with 
faithfully  paying  the  rent,  and  troubling  no 
more  about  it.     That  night  was  one  of  dismal 


2^0 


wakefulness  for  old  Jack  and  his  missis.  If 
he  had  understood  the  transaction  at  the  law- 
yer's office,  he  would  have  known  that  a  large 
proportion  of  the  sum  due  had  been  allowed 
him  in  the  final  adjustment  of  payment  to  the 
clay  ;  and  if  he  had  known  something  of  the 
ways  of  rate-collecting,  he  would  have  under- 
stood that  payment  was  not  expected  for  at 
least  a  month.  As  it  was,  the  glories  of  lease- 
possession  grew  dim  in  his  eyes,  and  a  landlord 
seemed  a  poor  creature,  spending  his  sub- 
stance to  keep  roofs  over  the  heads  of 
strangers. 


On  Wednesday  afternoon  a  man  called 
about  taking  the  house,  and  returned  in  the 
evening,  when  old  Jnck  was  home.  He  was 
a  large-featured,  quick-eyed  man,  with  a  loud. 
harsh  voice  and  a  self-assertive  manner. 
Quickly  old  Jack  recognized  him  as  a  speaker 
he  had  heard  at  certain  street-corners  ;  a  man 
who  was  secretary,  or  delegate,  or  that  sort 
of  thing,  to  something  that  old  Jack  had 
forgotten. 

He  began  with  the  announcement:  "I  am 
Joe    Parsons ;"    delivered    with   a   stare    for 


2QJ 

emphasis,  and  followed  by  a  pause  to  permit 
assimilation. 

Old  Jack  had  some  recollection  of  the 
name,  but  it  was  indefinite.  He  wondered 
whether  or  not  he  should  address  the  man  as 
"sir,"  considering  the  street  speeches,  and 
the  evident  importance  of  the  name.  But 
then,  after  all,  he  was  a  landlord  himself.  So 
he  only  said,  "  Yus  ?" 

"I  am  Joe  Parsons,"  the  man  repeated  ; 
"  and  I'm  looking  for  a  'ouse." 

There  was  another  pause,  which  lasted  till 
old  Jack  felt  obliged  to  say  something.  So 
he  said,  "  Yus?"  again. 

"  I'm  looking  for  a  'ouse,"  the  man  repeated, 
"  and  if  we  can  arrange  things  satisfactory,  I 
might  take  yours." 

Mr.  foe  Parsons  was  far  above  haggling: 
about  the  rent,  but  he  had  certain  ideas  as  to 
painting  and  repairs  that  looked  expensive. 
In  the  end  old  Jack  promised  the  paint  a 
touch-up,  privily  resolving  to  do  the  work 
himself  in  his  evenings.  And  on  the  whole, 
Mr.  Joe  Parsons  was  wonderfully  ensy  to 
come  to  terms  with,  considering  his  eminent 
public  character.  And  anything  in  the  nature 
of  a  reference  in  his  case  would  have  been 
absurd.  As  himself  observed,  his  name  was 
enough  for  that. 


2o8 
VI 


Old  Jack  did  the  painting,  and  the  new 
tenant  took  possession.  When  Mrs.  Randall 
called  for  the  first  week  a  draggle-tailed  little 
woman  with  a  black  eye  meekly  informed 
her  that  Mr.  Parsons  was  not  at  home,  and 
had  left  no  money  nor  any  message  as  to  the 
rent.  This  was  awkward,  because  the  first 
building  society  installment  would  Be  due 
before  next  rent-day — to  say  nothing  of  the 
rates.  But  it  would  never  do  to  offend  Mr. 
Parsons.  So  the  money  was  scraped  together 
by  heroic  means  (the  missis  produced  an 
unsuspected  twelve  and  sixpence  from  a 
gallipot  on  the  kitchen  dresser),  and  the  first 
installment  was  paid. 

Mrs.  Randall  called  twice  at  Mulberry 
Street  next  rent-day,  but  nobody  answered 
her  knocks.  Old  Jack,  possessed  by  a  misty 
notion,  born  of  use,  that  rent  was  constitu- 
tionally demandable  only  on  Monday  morn- 
ing, called  no  more  for  a  week.  But  on 
Thursday  evening  a  stout  little  stranger, 
with  a  bald  head  which  he  wiped  continually, 
came  to  the  Randalls  to  ask  if  the  tenant  of 
Twenty-seven  Mulberry  Street  was  Mr.  Joe 
Parsons.      Assured    that  it  was,  he  nodded, 


2og 

said  "  Thanks !  that's  all,"  wiped  his  head 
again,  and  started  to  go.  Then  he  paused, 
and  "  Pay  his  rent  regular?"  he  asked.  Old 
Jack  hesitated.  "  Ah,  thought  so,"  said  the 
little  stranger.  "  He's  a  wrong  'un.  I've  got 
a  bit  o'  paper  for  'im."  And  he  clapped  on 
his  hat  with  the  handkerchief  in  it  and  van- 
ished. 

VII 

Old  Jack  felt  unhappy,  for  a  landlord.  He 
and  the  missis  reproached  themselves  for  not 
asking  the  little  stranger  certain  questions  ; 
but  he  had  gone.  Next  Monday  morning 
old  Jack  took  another  half-day,  and  went  to 
Mulberry  Street  himself.  From  appearances, 
he  assured  himself  that  a  belief,  entertained 
by  his  missis,  that  the  upper  part  of  his  house 
was  being  sublet,  was  well-founded.  He 
watched  awhile  from  a  corner,  until  a  dirty 
child  kicked  at  the  door,  and  it  was  opened. 
Then  he  went  across  and  found  the  draggle- 
tailed  woman  who  had  answered  Mrs.  Ran- 
dall before,  in  every  respect  the  same  to  look 
at,  except  that  not  one  eye  was  black  but 
two.  Old  Jack,  with  some  abruptness,  de- 
manded his  rent   of   her,  addressing    her   as 


2IO 


Mrs.  Parsons.  Without  disclaiming  the 
name,  she  pleaded  with  meek  uneasiness  that 
Mr.  Parsons  really  wasn't  at  home,  and  she 
didn't  know  when  to  expect  him.  At  last, 
finding  this  ineffectual,  she  produced  four  and 
sixpence  ;  begging  him  with  increasing  agit- 
ation to  take  that  on  account  and  call  again. 

Old  Jack  took  the  money,  and  called  again 
at  seven.  Custom  or  law  or  what-not,  he 
would  wait  for  no  Monday  morning  now. 
The  door  was  open,  and  a  group  of  listening 
children  stood  about  it.  From  within  came 
a  noise  of  knocks  and  thuds  and  curses — 
sometimes  a  gurgle.  Old  Jack  asked  a  small 
boy,  whose  position  in  the  passage  betokened 
residence,  what  was  going  forward.  "  It's 
the  man  down-stairs,"  said  the  bo}%  "  a-givin' 
of  it  to  'is  wife  for  pay  in'  awy  the  lodgers' 
rent." 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Joe  Parsons  appeared 
in  the  passage.  The  children,  who  had  once 
or  twice  commented  in  shouts,  dispersed. 
"  I've  come  for  my  rent,"  said  old  Jack. 

Mr.  Joe  Parsons  saw  no  retreat.  So  he 
said  :  "  Rent  ?"  Ain't  you  'ad  it  ?  I  don't 
bother  about  things  in  the  'ouse.  Come  again 
when  my  wife's  in." 

"  She  is  in,"  rejoined  old  Jack,  "  an'  you've 
been  a-landin'  of  'er  for  payin'  me  what  little 


211 


she  'as.  Come,  you  pay  me  what  you  owe 
me,  and  take  a  week's  notice  now.  I  want 
my  house  kep'  respectable." 

Mr.  Joe  Parsons  had  no  other  shift.  "  You 
be  damned,"  he  said.     "  Git  out." 

"  What  ?"  gasped  old  Jack — for  to  tell  a 
landlord  to  get  out  of  his  own  house  !  .  .  . 
"What?" 

"  Why  git  out.  Y'ought  to  know  better 
than  comin'  'ere  askin  for  money  you  ain't 
earn't." 

"  Ain't  earnt  ?     What  d'ye  mean  ?" 

"  What  I  say.  Y'aint  earnt  it.  It's  you 
blasted  lan'lords  as  sucks  the  blood  o'  the 
workers.  You  go  an'  work  for  your 
money." 

Old  Jack  was  confounded.  "  Why — what 
— how  d'ye  think  I  can  pay  the  rates,  an' 
everythink  ?" 

"  I  don't  care.  You'll  'ave  to  pay  'em,  an' 
I  wish  they  was  'igher.  They  ought  to  be 
the  same  as  the  rent,  'an  that  'ud  do  away 
with  fellers  like  you.  Go  on  ;  you  do  your 
damdest  an'  get  your  rent  best  way  you 
can." 

"  But  what  about  upstairs  ?  You're  lettin' 
it  out  an'  takin'  the  rent  there.     I — " 

"  That's  none  o'  your  business.  Git  out, 
will  ye?"     They  had  gradually  worked  over 


212 

the  doorstep,  and  Randall  was  on  the  pave- 
ment. "  I  sha'n't  pay,  an'  I  sha'n't  go,  an*  ye 
can  do  what  ye  like;  so  it's  no  good  your 
stoppin' — unless  you  want  to  fight.  Eh — do 
ye  ?"  And  Mr.  Parsons  put  a  foot  over  the 
threshold. 

Old  Jack  had  not  fought  for  many  years. 
It  was  low.  For  a  landlord  outside  his  own 
house  it  was,  indeed,  disgraceful.  But  it  was 
quite  dark  now,  and  there  was  scarcely  a  soul 
in  the  street.  Perhaps  nobody  would  know, 
and  this  man  deserved  something  for  himself. 
He  looked  up  the  street  again,  and  then, 
"  Well,  I  ain't  so  young  as  I  was,"  he  said, 
"but  I  won't  disappoint-ye.     Come  on." 

Mr.  Joe  Parsons  stepped  within  and 
slammed  the  door. 


VIII 

Old  Jack  went  home  less  happy  than  ever. 
He  had  no  notion  what  to  do.  Difficulties  of 
private  life  were  often  discussed  and  argued 
out  in  the  workshop,  but  there  he  had  become 
too  unpopular  to  ask  for  anything  in  the  na- 
ture of  sympathy  or  advice.  Not  only  would 
he  lend  no  money,  but  he  refused  to  stand 
treat  on  rent  days.     Also,  there  was  a  collec- 


213 

tion  on  behalf  of  men  on  strike  at  another 
factory,  to  which  he  gave  nothing;  and  he 
had  expressed  the  strongest  disapproval  of 
an  extension  of  that  strike,  and  his  own  in- 
tention to  continue  working  if  it  happened. 
For  what  would  become  of  all  his  plans  and 
his  savings  if  his  wa<res  ceased  ?  Wherefore 
there  was  no  other  man  in  the  shop  so  un- 
popular as  old  Jack,  and  in  a  workshop  un- 
popularity is  a  bad  thing. 

He  called  on  a  professional  rent-receiver 
and  seller-up.  This  man  knew  Mr.  Joe 
Parsons  very  well.  He  never  had  furniture 
upon  which  a  profitable  distress  might  be 
levied.  But  if  he  took  lodgers,  and  they 
were  quiet  people,  something  might  be  got 
out  of  them — if  the  job  were  made  worth 
while.  But  this  was  not  at  all  what  old  Jack 
wanted. 

Soon  after  it  occurred  to  him  to  ask  advice 
of  the  secretary  of  the  building  society.  'lis 
was  a  superficial  young  man,  an  auctioneer's 
clerk  until  evening,  who  had  no  disposition 
to  trouble  himself  about  matters  outside  his 
duties.  Still,  he  went  so  far  as  to  assure  old 
Jack  that  turning  out  a  tenant  who  meant  to 
stay  was  not  a  simple  job.  If  you  didn't 
mind  losing  the  rent  it  might  be  done  by 
watching   until    the    house    was    left    ungar- 


214 

risoned,  getting  in,  putting  the  furniture  into 
the  street,  and  keeping  the  tenant  out.  With 
this  forlorn  hope  old  Jack  began  to  spend  his 
leisure  about  Mulberry  Street;  ineffectually, 
for  Mrs.  Parsons  never  came  out  while  he 
was  there.  Once  he  saw  the  man,  and  offered 
to  forgive  him  the  rent  if  he  would  leave;  a 
proposal  which  Mr.  Parsons  received  with 
ostentatious  merriment.  At  this  old  Jack's 
patience  gave  out,  and  he  punched  his  tenant 
on  the  ear.  Whereat  the  latter,  suddenly 
whitening  in  the  face,  said  something  about 
the  police,  and  walked  away  at  a  good  pace. 


IX 


The  strike  extended,  as  it  was  expected  and 
designed  to  do.  The  men  at  old  Jack's  fac- 
tory were  ordered  out,  and  came,  excepting 
only  old  Jack  himself.  He  was  desperate. 
Since  he  had  ventured  on  that  cursed  invest- 
ment everything  had  gone  wrong;  but  he 
would  not  lose  his  savings  if  mere  personal 
risk  would  preserve  them.  Moreover,  a  man 
of  fifty  is  not  readily  re-employed,  once  out, 
and  as  the  firm  wns  quite  ready  to  keep  one 
hand  on  to  oil  and  see  that  things  were  in 
order,  old  Jack  stayed  ;  making  his  comings 


215 

and  goings  late  to  dodge  the  pickets,  and  ap- 
proaching subtly  by  a  railway-arch  stable  and 
a  lane  thereunto.  It  was  not  as  yet  a  very 
great  strike,  and  with  care  these  things  could 
be  done.  Still,  he  was  sighted  and  chased 
twice,  and  he  knew  that  if  the  strike  lasted,  and 
feeling  grew  hotter,  he  would  be  attacked  in 
his  own  house.  If  only  he  could  hold  on 
through  the  strike,  and  by  hook  or  crook 
keep  the  outgoings  paid,  he  would  attend  to 
Mr.  Parsons  afterward. 


One  Saturday  afternoon,  as  Mrs.  Randall 
was  buying  greens  and  potatoes,  old  Jack, 
waiting  without,  strolled  toward  a  crowd 
standing  about  a  speaker.  A  near  approach 
discovered  the  speaker  to  be  Mr.  Joe  Par- 
sons, who  was  saying  : — 

" strike    pay   is    little    enough    at   the 

time,  of  course,  but  don't  forget  what  it  will 
lead  to  !  An'  strike  pay  does  very  well,  my 
frien's,  when  the  party  knows  'ow  to  lay  it 
out,  an'  don't  go  passin'  it  on  to  the  lan'lord. 
Don't  give  it  away.  When  the  lan'lord 
comes  o'  Monday  mornin',  tell  'im  (polite  as 
you    like)  that   there's   nothink  for    'im    till 


2l6 


there's  more  for  you.  Let  the  lan'lord  earn 
'is  money,  like  me  an'  you.  Let  the  lan'lords 
pay  a  bit  towards  this  'ere  strike  as  well  as 
the  other  blaggards,  the  imployers.  Lan'- 
lords  gits  quite  enough  out  o'  you  my  fellow 
workers,  when — " 

"  They  don't  git  much  out  o'  you  !" 
shouted  old  Jack  in  his  wrath  ;  and  then  felt 
sorry  he  had  spoken.  For  everybody  looked 
at  him,  and  he  knew  some  of  the  faces. 

"  Ho  !"  rejoined  the  speaker,  mincingly. 
"  There's  a  gent  there  as  seems  to  want  to 
address  this  'ere  meetin'.  P'raps  you'll  'ave 
the  kindness  to  step  up  'ere,  my  friend,  an' 
say  wot  you  got  to  say  plain."  And  he 
looked  full  at  old  Jack,  pointing  with  his 
finger. 

Old  Jack  fidgeted,  wishing  himself  out  of 
it.  "  You  pay  me  what  you  owe  me,"  he 
growled  sulkily. 

"  As  this  'ere  individual,  after  intruding 
'isseH  on  this  peaceful  meetin',  ain't  got  any- 
think  to  say  for  'isself,"  pursued  Mr.  Joe  Par- 
sons, "  I'll  explain  things  for  'im.  That's  my 
lan'lord,  that  is;  look  at  'im !  'E  comes 
'angin'  round  my  door  waitin'  for  a  chance 
to  turn  my  pore  wife  an'  children  out  o' 
'ouse  and  'one.  'E  rollers  me  in  the  street 
an'  tries  to  intimidate  me.     'E   comes  'ere, 


217 

my  feller  workers,  as  a  spy,  an'  to  try  an' 
poison  your  minds  agin  me  as  devotes  my 
'ole  life  to  your  int'rests.  That's  the  sort  o' 
man,  that's  the  sort  o'  lan'lord  V  is.  But  'e's 
somethink  more  than  a  greedy,  thievun', 
overfed  lan'lord,  my  frien's,  an'  I'll  tell  you 
wot.  'E's  a  dirty,  crawlin'  blackleg  ;  that's 
wot  else  'e  is.  'E's  the  on'y  man  as  wouldn't 
come  out  o'  Maidment's;  an'  'e's  workin' 
there  now,  skulkin'  in  an'  out  in  the  dark — a 
dirty  rat  !  Now  you  all  know  very  well  I 
won't  'ave  nothink  to  do  with  any  violence 
or  intimidation.  It's  agin  my  principles,  al- 
though I  know  there's  very  often  great 
temptation,  an'  it's  impossible  to  identify  in  a 
crowd,  an'  safe  to  be  very  little  evidence. 
But  this  I  will  say,  that  when  a  dirty,  low 
rat,  not  content  with  fattenin'  on  starvin' 
tenants,  goes  an'  takes  the  bread  out  o'  'is 
feller  men's  mouths,  like  that  bleedin'  black- 
leg— blackleg ! — blackleg  ! — 

Old  Jack  was  down.  A  dozen  heavy  >..  ots 
were  at  work  about  his  head  and  belly.  In 
from  the  edge  of  the  crowd  a  woman  tore  her 
way,  shedding  potatoes  as  she  ran,  and 
screaming  ;  threw  herself  upon  the  man  on 
the  ground  ;  and  shared  the  kicks.  Over  the 
shoulders  of  the  kickers  whirled  the  buckle- 


2l8 


end  of  a  belt.     "  One  for  the  old  cow,"  said  a 
voice. 


XI 


When  a  man  is  lying  helpless  on  his  back, 
with  nothing  in  hand,  he  pays  nothing  off  a 
building  society  mortgage,  because,  as  his 
wife  pawns  the  goods  of  the  house,  the  result- 
ing money  goes  for  necessaries.  To  such  a 
man  the  society  shows  no  useless  grace  ; 
especially  when  the  secretary  has  a  friend 
always  ready  to  take  over  a  forfeited  house 
at  forced  sale  price.  So  the  lease  of  Twenty- 
seven  vanished,  and  old  Jack's  savings  with 
it. 

And  one  day,  some  months  later,  old  Jack, 
supported  by  the  missis  and  a  stick,  took  his 
way  across  the  workhouse  forecourt.  There 
was  a  door  some  twenty  yards  from  that 
directly  before  them,  and  two  men  came  out 
of  it,  carrying  a  laden  coffin  <      ">lain  deal. 

"  Look  there,  Jack,"  the  mi'ssffe  said,  as  she 
checked  her  step;  "  what  a  common  caufin  !" 
And  indeed  there* was  a  distinct  bulge  in  the 
bottom. 

THE   END. 


fK 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

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